Family, Duty, Honour
by Penhaligon
Summary: AU. Plagued by dreams of a life half-remembered, Harry Potter strives to carve out a life for himself in the North. Protected and raised by the Starks of Winterfell, Harry's fierce loyalty drags him into playing the Game of Thrones in order to protect his surrogate family.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Game of Thrones/ A Song of Ice and Fire.

* * *

A war hammer crashed into his shield with tremendous force, forcing the boy down onto one knee. The blow nearly shattered the shield and the arm behind it, but the crawling runes that sprawled across its face gave it the strength to withstand the terrible blow. Rolling deftly away from the next attack, the boy surged to his feet, before striking viciously at his opponent. His bastard hand-and-a-half sword slid cleanly through the boiled leather armour of the Ironborn raider, burying three feet of cold steel into his opponent's belly.

Kicking the body off his sword, Harry turned to survey the battle below the walls of Seagard. Most of the first wave of Ironmen attackers had been killed, but Harry could still see more longships landing on the beach below the walls of the castle, bringing more and more of the foul raiders ashore. Around fifty feet in front of them, he could see Lord Jason Mallister, the ruler of Seagard, mustering his men to withstand another assault. They were horribly outnumbered, but those few men in front of Harry were the last defence of the fortress; the only thing stopping the Ironmen from raping the women and murdering the men.

They looked like the heroes of old, standing under the light of the morning sun in glittering silver-grey armour, their purple shields emblazoned with the silver eagle of House Mallister. Heroic though they looked, Harry knew that they would soon be dead to the last man, at which point he and the other poor and orphaned boys of the city who had managed to find weapons, would be called to defend the breach in the walls until their final breath.

Taking a moment to catch his breath, he looked over his weapons and, not for the first time, he prayed that he found something better soon.

Rather than a proper shield, he wielded the ceramic lid to a large and decorative clay pot that he had been commissioned to make. He had inscribed runes for durability and strength onto the inside of the lid, so that it would be impervious to the mishaps of daily life in the kitchen. He had just finished the last rune, when a Mallister bannerman burst into his late father's pokey little pottery shop and told him to grab anything he could find and get his arse to the wall, with the rest of the orphans.

He had picked up the bastard sword from the body of one of the defenders at the wall. It was made from good castle-forged steel, but it was chipped and jagged in places, showing off the scars of the battles it had fought in. Harry wore no armour save for a simple pot helm that he had stolen from another corpse that lay in the breach in the wall. As a boy of barely ten-and-three name days, he doubted that he would be able to lift a suit of armour with ease, let alone fight in one.

Harry could see that the Ironborn were ready and poised to attack.

"Ed!" He barked imperiously.

A tall skinny boy, about Harry's age, came scurrying towards him. Edric Rivers was one of Jason Mallister's many bastard sons, and was the closest thing to a friend that Harry had in Seagard. They didn't see each other very often and only spoke when Ed came to Harry's shop with a commission from his father. They weren't exactly amicable, but Harry didn't tend to speak to anyone else except for Ed.

"Get the youngest up onto the walls. Give them bows and spears and rocks, and tell them to try and thin the Ironmen out before they get to us. Leave the six oldest lads with me, we'll hold the breach."

Edric inclined his head, before hurrying off to carry out his orders. Even though Ed was older than him –as were many of the other orphans- he still followed Harry's orders, as did the rest. It wasn't that he was more aggressive or assertive over the others, if anything he was quiet and a little cold in his dealings with other people. More than once had some drunken fool joked about Harry being a Northman in disguise.

The boys followed Harry's orders because they had seen what he could do. The corpses of six Ironmen lay fallen before Harry's sword, a testament to his fearsome ability in battle.

A roar rose from the throats of the Ironborn, startling Harry out of his thoughts, as they charged the thin ranks of Mallister defenders. Harry saw Lord Jason dive straight into the fray, fighting his way towards a towering figure of a man, dressed from head to toe in gleaming plate armour topped with a stylized kraken helm.

_'A Greyjoy.'_ Harry thought furiously. They were the ones who started this war; they were the ones responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent people up and down the west coast of the Westerlands and Riverlands.

The Purple and silver banner of House Mallister dipped and swayed in the air, before falling fluttering to the ground as the men holding it were cut down. The Greyjoy let out a triumphant roar as he skewered Lord Jason with his great sword, the blade forcing its way through the gaps in the plates of his armour. The few Mallister men that survived fled back towards the castle as fast as they could. Some were cut down before they could reach safety, but a handful managed to regroup and join Harry in plugging the breach.

"Knock arrows!" Harry roared into the air. From above, he could hear the sounds of bows being drawn, of crossbows being winded back and off rocks being hefted onto shoulders ready to throw.

The Ironborn were on the move now, thundering towards Harry as a single lumbering, pillaging entity, ready to take and raze the castle.

"Fire!"

The enemy ranks faltered for a moment as they were tormented by arrow fire. A crossbow bolt took a man in the chest, throwing him onto his back and pinning him to the floor. For every man that was hit with an arrow, four were ready to take his place, as the horde still advanced towards the castle walls.

"Rocks!"

Harry cursed as many of the rocks fell short. He had given the order too early, and only the smaller rocks had gone far enough to do any damage. The larger boulders now littered the field in front of the defenders. _'Actually, that may be quite useful.'_

Harry's premonition was proved correct as more than one Ironborn tripped over the larger rocks, losing their footing, and disrupting the charge.

"Fire at will!" He cried, before hefting his pot lid up, drawing his sword and charging in to meet the thrice-damned Ironborn. He ducked under the swing of an axe, slamming his opponent in the face with his shield, before deftly slitting his throat with the base of his sword. Harry flung himself into the battle, his sword hacking and slicing at the lightly armoured Iron Islanders. He knew that the other half-dozen orphans were behind him, but he didn't dare to look and check. Instead he kept his mind fixed on the fight, catching the swing of a sword with his own sword, before breaking the man's arm with a blow from his shield.

Arrows and bolts flew over his head, spearing as many of the attackers as they could. Harry stumbled as a rock hit him in the head, knocking his helmet off completely.

"Oi! Watch your aim!" He roared angrily. He spared a split second of his time to take stock of the battle. Four of the orphans lay dead beside the wall, while the other two and the remaining few Mallister bannermen were slowly falling back, as the enemy advanced towards the breach. Slowly but surely, the Ironborn would fight their way through and take the castle.

A glint of silver, lit up by the cold sun, caught Harry's attention and in a flash he was off. With a renewed vigour, he hurled himself towards the thick of the fighting, where the Greyjoy stood in his gleaming silver-grey armour. Harry was much smaller than the towering noble, but he barrelled into him with the full might of his considerable fury.

His sword slashed down, but was caught on the sword of the other warrior. Vibrations ran up and down Harry's arm, as the edge of Greyjoy's sword bit deeply into the edge of his own. Harry started; he hadn't expected him to react that quickly. In that single moment of hesitation, Greyjoy kicked Harry in the chest with his heavily armoured foot. The small boy flew backwards, coughing heavily as he landed on the floor. Gingerly he touched his ribs, wincing as a bolt of pain shot through his body.

_'At least one's broken, maybe two.'_

As he lay helpless on the floor, the Greyjoy towered over him, raising his great sword to finish the young boy. He hefted the sword up above his head, before staggering back in shock. The thin stem of an arrow protruded from his neck, sinking into the gap in his heavy armour. He roared in defiance at the defenders on the wall, as more arrows were shot at him, shattering harmlessly against his breastplate.

Greyjoy's show of boldness had given Harry the time to clamber to his feet, picking up his sword and shield. Greyjoy's sword flashed past Harry, but his movements were slower now, and Harry was able to dodge, groaning as his muscles burned and his chest throbbed. Greyjoy struck again, and once again his strike flew wide of Harry. In a burst of speed, Harry slammed his shield into Greyjoy's neck, forcing the arrow deeper into the throat of his enemy before it shattered.

Harry fell back as the Greyjoy roared in agony. He took deep shuddering breaths, gurgling as blood began to fill his airways. His great sword slipped unbidden from his hand as his fingers lost the strength to hold it. His legs buckled as he fell to his knees, his head bowed towards the ground.

Placing his sword onto the Greyjoy's shoulders, Harry growled, "A real man would show mercy."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the orphans were dead. The breach was being held by two Mallister bannermen who looked ready to give out. He couldn't see any movement on the walls, and there hadn't been any arrows from there since the last one that struck the Greyjoy. He saw Ed's body, lying broken below the battlements, his body riddled with arrows. He didn't know if the other boys were dead or hiding, but by the end of the day the result would be the same. The Ironborn wouldn't leave anyone alive.

Harry ripped the Greyjoy's Kraken helm from his head, enjoying the look of fear that appeared on the Greyjoy's face at the touch of his cold steel on his bare skin. "It's a pity I'm just a boy then." Harry snarled viciously, before his sword came down, removing the Greyjoy's head from his shoulders.

_'I am no man. A real man would have been able to protect everyone. I'm just a boy, a fool of a boy.'_

Harry knew that the battle was drawing to a close. The men guarding the breach had fallen, but they had taken their killers down with them. Harry moved tiredly, but resolutely to stand in the breach, readying his sword once more in a final defence of the city. Faintly, he recognised the imperious sound of a war horn trumpeting through the air. By this point, even breathing had become difficult for Harry; each hurried breath brought more pain to his aggrieved ribcage.

The Ironborn were more cautious this time. Their first attack had been repelled, and their second had resulted in the death of the oldest son and heir of the Iron King, Balon Greyjoy. They advanced slowly, as a group, with their shields raised and ready. Harry was too tired to try and count their number, but there were easily twenty raiders, maybe even more. Two of the Iron raiders, seeing no threat from the ailing boy rushed towards him, swords drawn.

Harry ducked under the first blow, before bringing his shield up to block the second one. Forcing his shield upwards –and taking his enemies sword with it- he struck from below, skewering one of the Ironborn in the neck. The second Iron Islander slammed his shield down onto Harry's head and he went down, eyes swimming as he fought to stay conscious.

Dimly, Harry recognised a flash of white and grey, before he saw the second Ironborn attacker fall to his knees, his throat cut. Harry fell to the floor as his muscles gave out under the weight of his own body. Just before his world went black, Harry saw a tired man with kind eyes and a reassuring smile, holding a longsword in one hand and a banner in the other. The pale white banner depicted the head of a snarling grey direwolf, was strangely calming to Harry's eyes, as he relaxed knowing that help had arrived.

_'The Seven bless you, Ned Stark.'_

* * *

Harry hated his dreams. They scared him, terrified him even. He dreamt of battles long passed and a life that he had never lived. He dreamed of magic and dragons and spells and a faceless man who had caused untold sorrow to his dream self. He dreamed of loneliness and power and loss and grief. Over all those things, what terrified him the most was the knowledge he had gained from his dreams.

In his dreams he showed a mastery of magic unheard of in Westeros. When he awoke, he would find that to some degree, he had the abilities shown by his dream self. His abilities terrified him to no end, and so he refused to use them except for in extreme circumstances or when he was utterly alone and nobody could get hurt if his powers escaped his control. His dreams reminded him of something dangerous, something he couldn't control, something of his that could hurt the people around him. He hated those dreams with a passion.

Mercifully, his dreams this time were not filled with flashing visions of a past life; instead his dreams were dominated by a snarling grey direwolf and a massive golden kraken locked in a terrible battle, before with one fell swipe the wolf killed the leviathan. A jumping silver trout and a crowned black stag featured heavily in his thoughts, before a roaring lion mauled them both, sending them limping out of his dreams.

Harry woke with a start just as the lion turned on the wolf. He forced himself upright when he noticed the unfamiliar surroundings, ignoring the dull throbbing in his chest.

"Easy lad. Take it easy." A deep voice rang out, as a large warm hand pushed him back onto the bed. "You've been sleeping for two days."

Harry recognised the man as the one who had saved him from the Ironmen, the man who had carried the Stark banner into battle. He had a tired, weather beaten face, but his expression was warm and his eyes were comforting.

"Lord Stark!" It was an exclamation rather than a question.

"Aye lad. You know my name, but I don't know yours."

"My name is Harry, milord." Lord Stark nodded thoughtfully.

"And where are your parents, Harry?"

"They're dead, milord." Harry replied bluntly.

"I'm sorry to hear that, lad." He answered soberly.

"It wasn't your fault."

Visibly uncomfortable with the subject, Lord Stark quickly asked, "Are you alright lad? I had the maester check you over, and he said your ribs were healing nicely."

"Aye, milord." He ran his fingers over the bandages, wincing as he felt a dull throb of pain. "I'll be back at the kiln in no time."

"You're a potter?"

"Aye, milord. As was my father."

Lord Stark let out a short laugh. "That pot lid you were holding, did you make that?" At Harry's nod he went on, "Fine work, lad. Very fine indeed. Some of the townsfolk said they saw that thing brush off a hit from a war hammer like it was nothing!"

"Not quite like it was nothing, milord, but it was very helpful."

"Could you work metal like you work clay, lad?"

Harry took a moment to mull it over. "I could try, milord."

"Good lad, see that you do. A skill like yours should not be wasted."

"Thank you milord."

Lord Stark fell silent after that, as he looked to choose his next words carefully. Harry took the short moment to look around what he assumed to be the inside of a tent. Heavy northern furs lay draped over thin canvas to make up the walls of the tent. The insides of the tent were sparsely furnished; a cot, bundled with more furs, lay pushed up against the wall of the tent with a suit of armour strewn haphazardly across it.

"Harry." Lord Stark looked oddly apprehensive, as if he were picking his next words carefully. "In return for your bravery in the defence of the castle, I would offer you a boon of your choosing. If it is within my power to grant your wish, it shall be done."

Harry looked shocked. In all his life he had never heard of a lord affording a commoner such an honour. "Milord, may I ask a question?" At Ned's assent, he continued, "Were you the one to save me from the Ironborn?"

"I hardly saved you, lad. They say you cut down a dozen men before you fell. I only killed the one closest to you when you fell. It was my duty as a lord to protect you."

"Your duty…" Harry trailed off, deep in thought, before an idea struck him. "Milord, I have a request."

"Then name it, Harry the potter, and it shall be yours."

"Name me as your sworn shield, milord. Take me with you to Winterfell and let me repay my debt to you and your family. Let me do my duty to protect my lord."

Ned's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"You do not wish for a knighthood then, or gifts of money or land?"

Harry sighed heavily. "I have no reason to stay here even as a wealthy man and a knighthood would mean little to me if it were given away rather than earned."

"You truly believe that you would not have earned a knighthood? Even after you protected the people of the castle with your life?"

Harry shook his head resolutely. "If I were to ask for it, milord, I don't deserve it. A knight should protect the people without a thought for material gain."

"You will learn very quickly that that is not the case, lad. Not with knights like the Mountain or the Kingslayer roaming these lands." Ned shook his head at the boy's words, but couldn't help a small smile from spreading across his face. "You're a lot like me, lad. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not."

"Is that a yes then, milord?" Harry asked hopefully.

Ned chuckled shortly.

"Aye, that's a yes, boy." His face turned dark once more. "But it'll have to wait till we return to Winterfell, and gods only know when that will be."

Harry frowned. "Are you not riding back home, milord?"

"No, Harry. We ride to war. Balon Greyjoy has yet to bend the knee, so we will tear down his castle stone by stone, until he swears allegiance to King Robert."

Harry grimaced. "So we're going across the sea?"

Ned nodded grimly.

"To Pyke."

* * *

Despite his initial misgivings, Harry rather enjoyed travelling across the sea. The cool wind blowing through his hair, coupled with the salty spray of the water on his face was very refreshing. The journey took them two days with a cold westerly wind helping them on their way.

Harry soon discovered that it wasn't just the Starks who went to fight the Greyjoys. The Tully host travelled with them as well, under the leadership of Lord Hoster Tully, a great hulk of a man with an echoing, booming laugh who seemed very fond of Lord Stark. They travelled on Tully ships, as the Riverlords were the only ones with a large enough fleet since the Lannister fleet had been burned at anchor in Lannisport and the Royal fleet, under the command of Stannis Baratheon, was busy subduing the people of Great Wyk.

During the journey Harry had remained close to Lord Stark, despite the fact that he had not been acknowledged as a sworn shield yet. Instead, under Lord Stark's instruction, he learned of the ways of the noble men and of the North. He befriended many of the Stark bannermen, in particular the hulking Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. He was kind, if a bit dour, and was more than willing to help assimilate Harry into the Northern ways.

As Seagard was towards the Northern end of the Riverlands, much of the Northern culture had filtered down through the Neck, meaning that Harry had less to learn about the North than he had to learn about the noble way of life. A sworn shield would be a representative of the house that they served and a lack of education in any aspect of their duty would reflect badly on their house. As such, Harry took his impromptu lessons very seriously, spending hours in the evening committing the lessons to memory.

When he wasn't learning or attending to Lord Stark, he was practicing his swordplay on the deck of the galley. Because of his ribs he found that he couldn't quite heft the bastard sword that he had been using, so he acquired a much shorter sword which didn't aggravate his muscles to lift. Thankfully his pot lid weighed next to nothing, and the boy seemed loath to part with it. In the dead of night Harry worked on his set of arms, painstakingly inscribing the runes that he had been shown in his dreams, onto both his sword and his shield. Runes for strength and slight-of-hand, speed and endurance were etched across the face of the blade. Harry had managed to procure a light chain mail shirt, and he worked on that as well, arduously etching each link of mail with tiny runes for strength. Once he was finished with his runes, Harry painted his shield, spending many hours tracing the Stark direwolf onto the front of his shield before painting it in the Stark colours; white and grey.

By dawn on the third day of their journey they had run ashore upon the island of Pyke. Before them were camped some ten-thousand men, those loyal to the Baratheons and Tyrells, commanded by King Robert himself. A few hundred yards from the encampment lay the castle of Pyke itself; its walls looking battered and smoking after days of bombardment from the Baratheon siege engines. The southern wall had taken the brunt of the attack and looked to be on the brink of collapse. Thick black smoke rose from the horizon; the ruins of the castle of Botley and the town of Lordsport that had been put to the sword the day that the King had arrived at Pyke.

Lord Stark had turned to Harry and spoken quietly. "Stay with Jorah, lad. He'll look after you while I speak with Robert."

Harry nodded seriously before Jorah took him by the shoulders and steered him towards a campfire that was teeming with roasting game.

"After two days of naught but salt fish and ale, a man needs something more significant to warm his belly." Jorah said as he bit down on a whole leg of roast mutton. "Never forget that, Harry. A hungry army can't march, a hungry army can't fight. Now eat up, you'll need your strength for the assault."

Harry knew that the time for the attack was near. By the time Lord Stark re-joined them; the southern wall of the castle was groaning under its own weight and wouldn't stay up for long.

"When the attack starts you stay at Jorah's side, understand?"

"My lord, wouldn't it be more prudent to stay with you. I am to be your guard, am I not?" Harry took care to speak properly. From now on he would have to say 'my lord' not 'milord' as he wasn't to talk like a commoner anymore.

"I'll be with the king, lad. There won't be a safer place than fighting by the king's side." That was a lie and they all knew it. Every Ironborn bastard in the castle would go for the king, to try to end the battle in one fell stroke. Harry attempted to reason with Lord Stark, but he would not hear of it. After all, it wouldn't be right to stick a child into the centre of the fighting.

After Lord Stark turned away to find some food, Harry leaned in towards Jorah and whispered into his ear.

"If Lord Stark refuses to stay safely away from the thick of the battle, we'll just have to kill all of the Ironborn before they have the chance to reach him. Will you join me?"

Jorah's bear-like grin was all the answer Harry needed.

* * *

Harry was beginning to regret his decision to defeat the Ironmen single handed.

The wall had fallen quickly and the assault began with all haste. A man in red armour, holding a flaming sword was first into the breach, followed quickly by Harry and Jorah. At the breach in the walls, a man cloaked in black, wearing a similar kraken helm to that of the Greyjoy at Seagard, stood dazed in the centre of the breach. Wearily raising an axe, he lumbered towards the attackers before Harry swiftly and viciously deprived him of his head, before darting past his fallen corpse and through the breach.

Harry and Jorah pressed on, into the castle, where they were met by wave after wave of Ironmen. Time and time again, Harry's sword bit deeply into the necks of the Ironborn, taking heads, arms, fingers, anything he could. Harry was immensely grateful for Jorah's presence by his side; more than once had the bear lord saved the boy from death as they fought their way through the castle. They had been fighting for what felt like hours before they caught up with the man with the flaming sword.

He introduced himself as Thoros of Myr, a red priest of R'hllor, when they stopped to catch their breath and gather their wits. Harry purposefully ignored the thin layer of blood that coated his sword and armour, in an attempt to get rid of the sickening feeling that he felt in his stomach. He had sent dozens of men to their graves today. Vicious, raping, twisted men they may have been, but they were merely following their lord's orders.

"What is dead may never die." He whispered uneasily.

"Not used to the sight of blood, boy?" Questioned the red priest bluntly. Taking Harry's silence as confirmation, he went on. "It's better them than you, lad. These bastards have been terrorizing the Western shores for thousands of years, and if we don't bring them to heel they'll just keep on pillaging. It's for the greater good."

Harry looked at him, unconvinced by his words, until the priest spoke again. "Remember lad; the night is dark and full of terrors. It's our job to keep the darkness at bay."

The priest's words stirred something in Harry, but he had little time to think about it as a group of men rushed their position, swords raised, yelling fiercely.

_'Maybe it's alright to do a little evil if it brings a greater good.'_ He thought as he watched Jorah eviscerate one of the men with a practiced swing of his sword.

His mind fell back into the rhythm of battle as he swayed to avoid being bludgeoned with a driftwood cudgel, before ducking again as a flaming sword took the head off of his attacker.

"Keep up lad!" Bellowed Thoros, making Harry question if a person that exuberant in the face of death could really be a priest. "You wouldn't want to lose your head!" Roaring in laughter at his pun, he took off into the slowly building throng of men, his sword cutting a burning swathe through the iron host.

The sun was long over the top of the castle by the time the battle drew to a close. The three warriors had fought for hours, making their way through the castle, before halting at a gargantuan set of wooden doors, no doubt protecting the Great Hall of Pyke.

Jorah turned to look at Harry. "Thoros and I shall open it. We trust that you can protect us from what lies within while we do so?"

Harry grinned, his blood roaring in his ears. "We'll just have to see about that, my lord."

Taking a firm grip on the cool wood of the door the two warriors heaved with all their might, slowly pushing it open inch-by-inch, until they had made a gap large enough for Harry to slip through.

The air in the hall was thick and stifling, as blazing torches lit the way up to a raised dais. A wizened old man sat atop a seastone chair, the flames dancing off of the simple driftwood crown that he wore proudly atop his brow. Behind the 'throne' stood a young boy, who looked to be a few years younger than Harry. The boy let out a barely audible gasp as Harry approached warily, causing the old man, Balon Greyjoy, to growl in warning.

Harry could almost hear the unspoken threat. A kraken does not whimper before his foe. Behind him, he could hear that Jorah and Thoros had forced their way in, but he did not move his gaze from that of the old 'king.'

"Harry." Jorah was by his ear now, whispering hurriedly. "King Robert is almost here, as is Lord Stark."

As if on cue, the doors to the hall splintered and buckled as a terrible iron war hammer split the wood open. A man in a stag-antler helm marched forwards, ignoring the three fighters who had reached the throne room before him. Behind him, following at a more sedate pace, was Lord Stark. Seeing Harry's blood stained countenance, he grimaced but nodded solemnly in recognition of his valour.

"Lord Balon." A booming voice thundered through the hall. A voice rich with anger and passion; a voice that had raised half of Westeros in rebellion against a mad king. There was no doubt in Harry's mind that the antlered man was King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

The king cut an imposing figure; tall and broad, he towered over every man in the room, even over the bearlike figure of Jorah. "Your sons are dead!" The boy behind the throne began to tremble. "Your castle is broken, and your men lie in chains!"

He pointed the war hammer straight at the old Lord Greyjoy, showing off incredible strength by hefting it one-handed.

"You have one chance. Bend the knee or be destroyed."

By this point more men were swarming into the Hall. The kingsguard, resplendent in their gold armour and brilliant-white cloaks stood behind their king, swords ready to deal with any threat. Rising slowly from his grey stone chair, Balon Greyjoy raised a trembling hand to his forehead, before he flung his driftwood crown onto the cold floor by the feet of the Storm King. Taking a single shuddering step, he slowly fell forwards onto his knees, his fists resting on the ground, bending his neck in a show of subservience.

The war was over.

The King had triumphed.

* * *

Dusk had fallen over the royal encampment before Lord Eddard Stark sent for Harry. The boy was led by a page, through the endless twisting maze of tents and fires, before directing him to a large bare quadrangle that lay before the king's tent. Standing in a line, with the king himself in the centre, were the great noble commanders of the army; Ned Stark, Randyll Tarly, Ser Barristan Selmy, Paxter Redwyne, Ser Brynden Tully and Stannis Baratheon to name but a few.

In the centre of the field knelt Jorah, still clad in his blood and dust spattered plate armour from the battle. His sword was drawn but he held it by the blade, offering the handle up to the assembled noble lords.

"Kneel!" Croaked Lord Stark in a carrying whisper.

In an instant, Harry was upon the field, his pose imitating Jorah's perfectly as he offered the handle of his own sword towards the king. In a thundering trumpet of a voice, King Robert began to address the silent crowd of nobles.

"It is proper, my lords, to honour those who serve us with courage and dignity in the face of the enemy." The words may have spilled from the king's lips, but Harry knew that they truly had come from Lord Stark's mouth. He held out his hand as Lord Stark unbuckled his own great sword, Ice, from his back before pressing it into his friend's hands. Harry bowed his head lower, staring intently into the dust by his feet.

He felt a touch on his right shoulder, as the cold blade rested by his neck for an instant, before it was gone and he heard King Robert intone solemnly.

"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave."

Again he felt the touch of icy steel, this time on his left shoulder, lingering only for the briefest of moments before rising once more.

"In the name of the Father I charge you to be just."

Once more he felt the tap on his right shoulder.

"In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent."

Now it came down on his left side.

"In the name of the Maiden I charge you to protect all women."

He felt a hand tug his chin upwards until his eyes met the stormy, warm eyes of the king.

"Do you so swear?"

Holding a clenched fist to his heart, Harry spoke slowly, in-time with Jorah. "I so swear."

The king's eyes danced in the light of the camp fires.

"By the Seven, arise a knight! Arise, Ser Jorah Mormont! Arise, Ser Harry the Potter!"

A great roar rose from the throats of the assembled throng, as the two newly-anointed knights stood stiffly, sheathing their swords. Dozens of voices shouted congratulations at the pair, others issuing offers of challenge and yet more offering to feast the knights at some obscure holdfast or another.

"Enough!" Roared the King, "Seven hells, did we fight today! And by the gods, we're going to celebrate!"

Another cheer greeted his words as men rushed off in every direction, fetching casks of ale and musical instruments and food and whores, all to be enjoyed long into the night in celebration of their great victory.

Harry pushed his way through the crowd, forcing his way between men that stood more than a whole head taller than him, before he reached Lord Stark.

"You fought well today, Ser." His tone was light and jovial.

"Aye my lord, as did you."

Ned laughed heartily. "I didn't see near so much of the fight as you did, lad, and I think you know why."

Harry had the grace to look abashed at Ned's words.

"I'm not mad, Harry. I just think you should be careful. You're a fine fighter, and the youngest boy to be knighted since the Kingslayer when he was but ten-and-three, but you should still take care around a battle."

"I will my lord." Harry casted around, searching for another subject to talk about. "Will you be heading north soon, my lord?"

"Aye, I will, as will you. You've proved yourself in battle, so the North lords will have no problem with you being my sworn shield."

Harry flushed a little. "Thank you, my lord."

"We'll travel to Winterfell as soon as the nobles decide who will foster Theon."

"Theon?" Harry's brow furrowed. "Lord Greyjoy's son?"

"Aye lad. Robert wanted to push him onto me, but when he heard that I was already taking a lad to foster, and that that lad had killed Theon's two elder brothers; Rodrick and Maron, he decided that it would be best for him to go elsewhere."

"You're fostering me?" Harry asked, surprised.

Ned nodded. "You have three more years before you become a proper man. If you're to represent my house it's my duty to make sure that you are educated and looked after until then, which means that you will be fostered at Winterfell for the foreseeable future."

"I… am honoured, Lord Stark."

"As well you should be, boy!" Ned joked, "You'll have to earn your keep at my castle, or I'll send you packing back to Seagard."

Harry could only grin in reply.

He already loved his new life with the Starks.

* * *

AN: A pretty heft first chapter, but I felt that I had to get it all out of the way quite quickly to set the story before the GoT timeline began. The next chapter will be set after a nine year time skip, starting with the king's arrival at Winterfell.

Despite the title being the words of House Tully, the story will have little focus on the Riverlords, however I did feel that their words encapsulated the ideals that Harry strives towards, in this story. I plan for the majority of the story to focus on the Houses of Stark, Targaryen, Lannister and Baratheon.

R&R,

Thanks,

Penhaligon


	2. Winter is Coming

Chapter 2 – Winter is Coming

* * *

"Tell me a story of my homeland, Ser Jorah."

The merciless sun beat down on the long procession of people. Tens of thousands marched through the pale green fields of the Dothraki Sea; men, women and children walking with everything they would need to survive. Armourers and blacksmiths and potters and herders trudged as one, lost in the great snake that wound its way across the land; the khalasar of Khal Drogo.

"What would you like to hear, khaleesi?" The former Lord of Bear Island was still dressed like a man from the North, despite the fact that he was many thousands of leagues from his birthplace. Even under the sweltering sun he wore full plate armour, though he had abandoned the helm, of a dark grey colour, inscribed around the edges with small markings.

Daenerys Targaryen looked forwards as she pondered the question. Her eyes fell on the back of her husband, his long braid swinging slowly as he rode. She frowned noticeably. He was such a harsh man, a man of blood and death who couldn't appreciate the sanctity of life. He was a brutal leader, but she understood that he led an unforgiving life, where if his people thought him weak for even a second, they would turn on him. As her eyes wandered they landed on her brother, his silver hair burning in the noonday sun, just as hers did. Her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened as she thought of his cruelty and anger.

"Tell me a story of a real knight. A happy story of a good man, if you can think of one."

Jorah laughed heartily, his bear-like boom startling the khaleesi's handmaidens who walked by her horse. "Aye khaleesi, there are few men like that left in Westeros, but I think I know just the one." He took a moment to compose himself, gathering his thoughts before he spoke. "Just over eight years ago, six months after the Usurper crushed the rebellion of the Ironmen, a great tourney was held outside the walls of Lannisport."

He paused as he looked around, lost in his memories, as if he had returned once more to the tourney field. "It was there that I met my soon-to-be wife, but you asked for a happy story, so I shall not burden you with my tale." He swallowed fitfully, before continuing. "I fought in the joust that day, and by the Seven was that my day. My lance flew true, strike after strike, and I unhorsed the Kingslayer himself in the final, after nine lances. The joust that day was spectacular, but the melee was unlike any that have ever been, before or since."

A small grin spread unbidden across his face as he thought of his friend fighting in the melee that day. "The battles raged for hours on end, pitting the greatest swordsmen in the Westerlands against each other. By the end of the second day of the melee, there were two knights remaining; Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard and the most fearsome sword in Westeros, and Ser Harry the Potter, a young man of just ten-and-four, but the sworn shield to Lord Eddard Stark."

Dany's eyes shone as she revelled in Jorah's story. "But how can a mere boy be a knight?"

Jorah's smile turned feral as he turned to her. "He had proven himself at the Battle of Seagard and later, the Siege of Pyke, so the Usurper knighted him in the field for his bravery. A more deadly fighter than any I have ever met, he was deathly loyal to Lord Stark. He loved the Wolf like a surrogate father, and in turn the Wolf nestled him like one of his cubs. He was trained by Ser Brynden Tully, known as the Blackfish, and Lord Stark himself from the day that they were met."

Dany's expression turned wistful as she thought of her father figure in her life. She had been raised by her brother, but he did not have a fatherly bone in his body; he was completely incapable of offering comfort or guidance to Dany when necessary.

"In any case, the two knights began their fight at dawn on the third day, with the Usurper and half of the Baratheons and Lannisters watching. Ned Stark had even brought his three eldest children with him to watch the tourney, all the way from Winterfell. Two boys, the heir and the bastard, and a little girl with flaming red hair, called Sansa, were clamouring and cheering for their Northman, Ser Harry, while the rest of the royal box – and most of the field- were cheering for Ser Barristan."

His fingertips twitched on the handle of his sword as he thought back to that day, to the noise and the heat and the roar of the crowd.

"When they fought, it was easy to see who was better. Ser Barristan was soundly trouncing Harry at each blow, but for all his skill, he could not land a strike on the younger knight. As many men had learned, Harry may not have been the best swordsmen, but by the Seven was he fast. He could slip in and out of your stroke before you even knew it. Still, regardless of his speed, he was soon losing handily."

Jorah shook his head as he was swarmed with memories of the tourney, of the feeling of new-found love and the elation of victory. He could see that the khaleesi was hooked on his every word, hoping beyond hope for a happy ending.

"I knew he had lost when Ser Barristan split his shield in two, before knocking off Harry's helm with the butt of his sword. I grated and groaned, as did the rest of the north men, for we knew that he had lost this duel. However, Lady Sansa, in her fervour, had crept closer to the edge of the royal box to better cheer on her knight. After one particularly close exchange, she leaned too far over the edge of the rail and fell forwards, into the dust."

Dany sucked in a breath sharply, a knot of tension forming in her shoulders as she waited for Jorah to finish his story.

"Hearing her cry of pain, something snapped in Harry. I could see it from where I was standing. One minute, Ser Harry was barely fending off Ser Barristan's strikes, but the next, Ser Barristan was on his knees, his sword flung far across the field." At Dany's smile, he shook his head. "Ser Harry, instead of pressing his advantage and claiming victory, promptly threw down his sword and declared in a strong voice that he would forfeit, before he rushed towards little Lady Sansa and bundled her up in his arms. She was only six at the time and she fit snugly in his embrace, as he carried her off the field, whispering words of comfort in her ear."

Dany's smile shone as she pictured the scene in her head, the perfect knight clad in glittering silver armour, nestling a small child, whose hair was touched by fire, in his arms. She sighed wistfully as she compared her dream knight to the Dothraki bloodriders that served her husband. One served honour and justice, while the other revelled in death and destruction.

"It appears that chivalry is not dead in the Seven Kingdoms." She mused aloud.

"Indeed, khaleesi." Jorah smiled mournfully as he thought of his friend, and everything that he had left behind when he fled across the Narrow Sea in fear for his life.

"Do you have any more stories of our young knight, Ser Jorah?"

Jorah grimaced. Many of his stories with Harry involved blood and duty and death. Harry had served long as the justice of Lord Stark, riding often from Winterfell to deal with bandits and slavers and rapists and the like, which meant that for the most part, Harry had met Jorah while on a morbid errand of some kind or another. Their meetings had been marred with an overhanging aura of blood, which neither soldier had minded too much, but made for grim story material for a young khaleesi looking for a fairy tale escape from her own harsh life.

"Alas, we have not seen each other in many years, but I should still remember some tales from some of the adventures we shared!" His eyes danced as he smiled at the young khaleesi, who could only laugh back at him; a melodic sound that carried far into the air, away from the two Westerosi companions.

* * *

"I want his head!"

"My lord, please calm down!"

The great hall erupted in noise as the noble lords of White Harbour resumed their shouting match. The Wolf's Den was the great keep that sat in the centre of White Harbour, the largest city in the North and the fifth-largest in all of Westeros. The great hall of the Wolf's Den was a magnificent affair; a large room lined in cold black wood, edged with finely stitched tapestries, and warmed by a half-dozen hearths that burned low along the walls of the hall.

Sitting in the centre of the hall, sternly ignoring the commotion around him, was an immensely corpulent man, his rolls of fat bulging around his waist. Kneeling before him was a young man with long and messy black hair. He was a slim man; not built impressively, but he stood at a decent height that allowed him to look down on most men. He bowed his head in an attempt to avoid being drawn into the confrontation that raged around him.

With a short bark, the corpulent Lord Wyman Manderly brought silence to the entire room.

"Enough!" he roared, his fat fingers clutching the arms of his wooden seat tightly. "I've had enough of this infernal racket!" He jabbed a large finger in the direction of the kneeling man. "Ser Harry, what say you? What do the Lords of Winterfell say about our cause? Will they aid us?"

The kneeling man rose smoothly before speaking. "My Lord Manderly, the Starks are sympathetic to your plight, but I fear that there is little that they can do to help you."

One of the many lords that had gathered in the hall spat viciously on the floor. "So the Wolves will not help us. We fight their battles for them and they return our kindness by leaving us out in the cold. To hell with Stark sympathies!"

Harry grimaced. He yearned to put the impudent noble in his place, but he couldn't risk offending the bannerman that served under House Manderly, on the chance that the fat Lord Manderly himself would take offence. However, much to his surprise, it was the fat old man that voiced Harry's own opinions.

"Shut up, boy!" He roared, spittle flying from his mouth as he voiced his tempestuous fury. "A thousand years before the Conquest, a promise was made, and oaths were sworn here in the Wolf's Den before the Old Gods and the New. When we were sore beset and friendless, hounded from our homes and in peril of our lives, the wolves took us in and nourished us and protected us against our enemies. This city is built on the land they gave us, and in return we swore that we would always be their men."

His voice dropped to an icy cold whisper, and Harry felt a touch of fear run through him when he listened to the vengeful words from the old lord. "Do not spit on the promises of greater men, Ser, by insulting those who are and will always be our dearest friends."

The hall fell silent once more save for the heavy breathing of Lord Manderly. "Leave us." He ordered coldly, dismissing the dozens of attendants and bannermen that had gathered in the hall to hear of what Winterfell's decision would be. As the great wooden doors slammed shut behind the last of the disgruntled minor nobles, the old man turned to entreat with Harry once more.

"I'm sorry about that, Ser Harry. I truly am, but sometimes the people of my city forget just how much we all owe to the Starks."

"I understand wholeheartedly, my lord. I owe much to the Starks as well."

The heavyset man nodded thoughtfully as he considered Harry's words. "I understand your predicament Ser Harry, the Boltons are an influential family in the North, but is there nothing more that you can do? I beg of you!"

Harry grimaced once more, lines forming on his forehead as he furrowed his brow in frustration.

"It is not a matter of influence, Lord Manderly. If it was simply that, then Lord Stark could have had the bastard's head on a spike as soon as you made the accusations." Harry paused as he chose his words. "I truly believe that you are correct in your fears, the bastard of the Dreadfort is a vile and loathsome creature, but you hold no firm evidence of his misdeeds and so the Starks cannot put the boy on trial."

The obese man let his anger fill his expression once more. "The bastard and his hounds raid my lands and rape and kill my people, but he leaves only a shadow and a whisper behind him. The closest we came to catching him was when one of my outriders found this at the remains of a burning village."

He handed a small scrap of cloth over to Harry. Despite its partially charred and blackened appearance, he could make out the distinctive pattern of the 'flayed man,' the sigil of House Bolton of the Dreadfort.

"I would advise, my lord, that you keep your suspicions to yourself, so as not to attract the attentions of Roose Bolton. However, that is not to say that you should not continue your investigation."

Wyman nodded determinedly. "Indeed we shall, Ser Harry. We will continue our investigation until we have sufficient evidence to bring Ramsay Snow to justice."

"Again my lord, I can only apologise that House Stark cannot do more for you, but with the Kings imminent arrival at Winterfell, we cannot afford any trouble of this weight at this time."

"I understand, Ser. You will do what you must, and I will do what I must. But know this; even if we do not like it, we will respect the judgement of the Warden of the North, now and always."

Harry let a small smirk spread across his face. The Manderly's were good, loyal people, who had always served their Lord faithfully.

"Now and always." He echoed the words of the fat lord, before bowing his head in deference once more and swiftly excusing himself from his presence.

It had taken a full week's riding to travel from Winterfell to White Harbour, and he was needed back at the castle as soon as was physically possible. He didn't bother with any niceties or greetings with anyone he met as he swept quickly through the castle. Barring Lord Wyman Manderly, he hadn't made many friends on his trip to the Wolf's Den with his sharp and brusque attitude. He made his way promptly to the stables where a bay coloured mare was bedding amidst large mounds of hay.

"C'mon girl." He crooned gently, coaxing her up as he inspected the wear and tear on the small runic inscriptions of her horse shoe. Enchanting –as Harry had come to call it- the shoes of his horse, for endurance and speed, had been a stroke of genius in Harry's eyes but unfortunately the tiny carvings never lasted long in the soft metal, as the damages of riding took their toll on the shoes themselves. He was lucky this time; the shoes had held up well enough, meaning that he wouldn't have to half-kill his horse to return to Winterfell in time for the royal visit.

"Where's Padfoot gone, girl? Where is the little mutt?"

A low growl echoed from behind his legs, causing Harry to laugh brightly, before bending down to greet the little direwolf. A few months previously, Lord Stark had found six little direwolf pups when travelling through the Wolfswood, and they had been taken as pets for the five Stark children and Jon Snow. Needless to say, Harry had become incredibly and childishly jealous of the new pets, and had returned to the Wolfswood on his own in an attempt to find a direwolf pup of his own. After a week's camping in the bitter cold, he had unwittingly ended up near where they had found the other pups, which was where he had found little Padfoot huddling below the bough of a weirwood tree.

He had named the little wolf Padfoot as the pup's dark grey, bordering on black, fur reminded him of something that he had seen before, possibly in one of _those_ dreams, which made the name jump out at him.

Ever since the day that he had plucked the wolf pup out of the arms of the tree, the little mutt had refused to be parted from Harry for longer than a few hours. Bending down, Harry resigned himself to a thorough face licking from his childish little wolf as a reprimand for leaving him alone for so long.

"Gerroff me, boy!" Harry groaned, wiping his face clean, before picking Padfoot up with both hands and plonking him into a purpose made saddle bag that rested in front of Harry and would prevent the little wolf from falling off the horse. Padfoot was far too young to make the journey all the way to Winterfell on foot, so Harry had fashioned the harness as a way of taking his friend with him wherever he went.

"Come on. It's a hard ride to Winterfell and we have to make it in less than a week if we want to beat the King to the castle. A raven came in from Moat Cailin to say that the royal retinue had been spotted there three days ago, so they already have a hefty head start."

He clambered up onto his horse, before picking up the reins and digging his heels into the side of the horse. With a small whinny, it was off at a canter, hooves clattering on the stone path that lead from the keep and out through the city.

* * *

"Come on, Lady." Sansa called to her little wolf pup. Septa Mordane had been much pleased with her work in her lessons, so she had been allowed to go for a walk as a break. She paced around the insides of the high walls of the castle, keeping the corner of one eye fixed on her brother Bran as he shimmied up the face of the wall of the westernmost tower.

She paid little attention to where she was going, letting her feet carry her along the well-worn path that marked the outer edges of the keep. The cold sun lay obscured by thick swathes of heavy cloud, casting a pallid atmosphere onto the castle.

Sansa apologised profusely as she walked straight into someone, startling her from her reverie.

"You should watch where you walk, my lady."

"Harry!" She squealed, recognising his voice, throwing her arms around his neck. He laughed wildly, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her into the air. "You're back!"

"Aye, I am. Did you miss me?"

"Of course not." She huffed officiously, yet she was still unable to stop herself from smiling wildly. "Why would I miss you?"

"You wound me, little wolf." He grinned as she hit him in the arm playfully. "Careful, my lady. You're acting a little like your sister."

His grin could only widen as she grimaced at the thought of behaving like Arya. "Have you been back long, Harry?"

"Just since this morning. I wanted to greet you, but I was told that you were in lessons, so I spent some time with Robb and Jon and Bran until you were done."

He knew he had said the right thing when she blushed prettily. Sansa always liked to be treated as an individual, she liked to feel special, and so Harry always made sure that she did. Sansa had grown up on stories of honourable and kind knights of the realm, so it was only natural that out of all of the Stark retainers, Harry was by far her favourite.

He laughed and smiled and japed with her as she led him back inside the castle, to where her brothers were practicing their bowmanship.

"Care for a shot, Potter?" The distinctive husky voice came from Jon Snow, Ned's bastard son, and one of Harry's favourite students. When he was not being sent riding from Winterfell, Harry served as an assistant to the Master-at-Arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel. During his years at the castle, he had learned skill with a blade from Lord Stark, a skill that he had passed on to the two eldest Stark boys.

Harry laughed lightly. For all his skill with a sword, he was less than useless with a bow, and Jon knew that.

"I'm afraid not, Snow, but maybe I can put you in yer place again, you impudent little pup." He grinned, as he accepted a practice sword tossed to him by Robb.

Jon laughed as he barrelled into Harry, in an attempt to pin him to the floor. Harry stepped cleanly away from the lunge, before rapping the flat of the blunt training blade across the back of Jon's knees.

In a flash, he was up and crossing blades with Harry, his hands fast and his footwork precise as he pushed Harry back. The sound of clashing metal filled the otherwise silent training yard as the mock battle raged on. Jon was an excellent swordsman when his heart wasn't clouding his head. He kept up well with Harry, despite the little runes that were constantly making him faster, stronger and a better swordsman, than should have been physically possible for him.

Their swords clashed once more, but neither seemed willing to move back, as they pushed against each other with all their might, metal grating on metal as they did so.

"You look tired, Potter."

"As do you, Snow. Maybe when you're fully rested you'll be able to keep up with me."

Jon growled playfully at Harry's barbs.

"We're finishing this now, little knight."

"That we shall, little boy."

With a roar, they disengaged before flying at each other once more, their swords crashing heavily again and again, until Harry felt an excruciating pain in his left ear.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TWO DOING?"

"Ow…ow…ow…ow…Lady Catelyn… ow…ow…Could you let go of my ear please?"

The tugging on his ear intensified, and Harry could see that she was gripping Jon tightly by the ear as well, pulling both tall men down to her level.

"The king is arriving at any minute, and you two are fighting like animals!" She shrieked. "I have half a mind to bang your heads together until one of you learns some sense." She released Jon, ordering him to go get changed, but held on to Harry's ear as she dragged him to a seat that had been set up in one of the corners of the yard.

"Harry, it's lovely to have you back home, but I had hoped that you would have more sense on your return. Honestly… fighting? You know that the king is due at any time now, I wouldn't have thought that you needed reminding."

"Yes, my lady. Sorry, my lady. Would you mind letting go of my ear, my lady?" He gabbled quickly.

She pushed him down onto the seat before barking an order to the man standing behind Harry.

"Wash him, shave him and cut his hair. Make him look presentable, but be quick about it; the outriders have spotted the royal entourage, they'll be here in a few hours."

Harry scowled as he watched tufts of hair fall from the top of his head. As one of the representatives of the Stark household, he knew that he would have to be presentable, but he didn't know that he would have to look 'pretty' for the royal visit.

* * *

Harry frowned as his fingers slid over his now smooth face. If it wasn't for the heavy furs that he was wearing, he would look like a Southron lord. He schooled his features into an expressionless mask, the same face he used when he carried out the sentences of Lord Stark, as the first of the golden-armoured kingsguard rode into the keep. He recognised the confident, almost haughty, manner in which Jaime Lannister rode, even with his heavy armour and helm obscuring his features from view.

He stood next to Jon and Ser Rodrik, behind the Stark children. The training yard had been swept and tidied, with all the equipment stacked carefully inside one of the barns, out of sight. Attendants and retainers lined the sides of the yard with their backs to the castle walls, some holding long banners in the Stark colours, with snarling grey direwolves on the front.

Every man and woman in the yard knelt silently as the king rode through the portcullis and into the castle proper. Harry was shocked at the sight of the man. He still had the dark black hair and piercing blue eyes that he remembered from the last time he saw the man, but by the gods had the man gotten fat. He wasn't as obese as the corpulent Lord Manderly, but he was getting there. What had once been lean muscle had been replaced by bulging fat, but Harry could tell that there was still some strength buried inside the man. Still, this wasn't the man that had roused half the Kingdom in open rebellion against a tyrant. This wasn't Robert Baratheon the great warrior, who broke Rhaegar Targaryen in the Ruby Ford of the Trident. This was the shell of the man he had once been; lain waste by drinking and feasting and whoring tirelessly.

He heard the king greet Lord Stark and smiled when he heard them laughing. It was a good thing that not all of the true Robert Baratheon had been lost. While making his greetings, the king passed Harry by without any glint of recognition before he swept from the yard, asking to see the crypt. The king may not have recognised Harry, but the Lannisters certainly did. He could see that Ser Jaime had remembered him from the Tourney at Lannisport, and he could see that Queen Cersei's gaze was fixated on him, struggling to remember where she had seen those Lannister green eyes before.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the queen turned back to her brother and was escorted inside. The Lannister twins made him uncomfortable. It was something in the way that they regarded the people around them, as if they were the lions and the rest were just sheep, ready for the taking and existing only for the lion's pleasure.

Jon turned to Harry as the crowd began to file out of the yard, returning to their duties, a disgruntled expression slapped firmly on his face. "I had to cut my hair for this?" He asked incredulously.

Harry had laughed at that, before he wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulder. "Come on. I could use a drink."

Harry stuck with Jon for the rest of that day. Neither men had any duties to attend to, and were simply ordered to 'stay the hell away' from the people who were rushing around to set up the great hall before the feast. Instead they sat outside and talked to one another, a mug of dark brown ale in one hand, whittling away the rest of the day until the time for the feast came.

Harry smiled sadly at Jon. "I'll do my duty, show my face to my adoring crowd, and then I'll return and we can saddle the horses and go and train outside of the castle."

Jon nodded gently, but Harry could see the sadness on his face and in that instant Harry hated himself for leaving Jon alone when he so desperately needed to feel included. Still, it was his duty as Lord Stark's sworn shield to make an appearance at the feast for however short a period of time. He understood why Lady Catelyn disliked Jon, but he could not abide by the way she treated him. Lady Stark had always been kind and warm and courteous to Harry, but to Jon she was like the ice; cold and hard and unforgiving.

Harry nearly ran into the hall, eager to get the feast done with and return outside. The air in the hall was thick and hot, and the smells of roasting animals and the acrid tang of strong wine lingered long in Harry's nose. He saw Robb standing at the edge of the festivities, keeping one eye on the young prince that thought to woo his sister. He made his way over to Robb, pulling him into a bear hug, before they both settled down to watch the celebrations.

"I don't like it, Harry. The right royal prick looks at her as if she's a piece of meat."

Harry growled low in his throat. Robb was right. He could see that Joffrey, from his place by the queen, was eying Sansa hungrily, with a less than decent expression on his face. In turn he could see that she was looking towards the prince and blushing every so often. Harry wasn't surprised that Sansa had become infatuated with the Crown Prince, but that didn't mean that he liked it.

"This can't be good. I'll have a word with her, but I doubt she'll listen to me."

"Shouldn't I go? I'm her brother, she'll listen to me."

Harry snorted. "Would she listen to her father if he told her that the prince wasn't good for her? No, I'll go. She might take it less as a lecture and more as the observations of a worried friend."

Robb nodded in agreement. "Alright, but do it soon. It might become more difficult to hear the longer you leave it."

Harry grinned at him. "There's no time like the present."

He sidled over to Sansa, ignoring Robb's hissed protests of 'don't do it now', dropping himself into the seat next to her.

"My lady, I would ask to speak with you."

"Of course, Ser. What would a knight ask of a humble maiden such as myself."

Harry leaned in close, as his voice dropped to a low whisper.

"Take care when treating with the prince, my lady." Sansa made to make a rebuttal, but Harry cut her off. "I'm being serious, Sansa. I very much dislike the way he looks at you. He looks at you as though you were a piece of meat."

Sansa's eyes widened. "Joffrey would never…"

Harry cut her off again. "My lady, I would not presume to tell you what to do, but I have heard no good stories about Prince Joffrey. I may be wrong and he could be a wonderful person, but for my own peace of mind, just promise me that you'll be careful around him."

His emerald green eyes bore into hers, as he begged for an assurance that she would take care.

"Fine." She huffed. "I promise that I will be careful around him. I'll keep Lady with me at all times."

He could see that she didn't believe him about Joffrey, but it didn't matter. As long as she held the slightest inkling of suspicion, she would be more wary around the Lannister Prince. Harry relaxed visibly when she said that. "I am relieved, my lady. But if you'll excuse me, Jon is waiting for me outside, and it would be remiss of me to keep him waiting."

Harry got up quickly, flashing a reassuring smile at Robb before he left the hall hastily. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Arya loading mashed potatoes onto a spoon and taking careful aim at her sister. Harry grinned but quickened his pace as he left the hall. He wouldn't want to get caught up in that particular fight.

He had nearly reached the training yard, where Jon waited for him, when he ran into the Imp, almost literally.

"Apologies, my lord. I wasn't watching where I was going."

The dwarf waved his apologies away, as he carried on walking towards the feast, almost completely ignoring Harry. Harry shrugged off the dwarf's rudeness, pressing on through the castle, only to find Jon hacking at a straw practice dummy.

Harry sighed. "What did he say, Jon?"

Jon turned towards Harry, his face full of fury, but his eyes despondent. "I've had enough, Harry! I can't deal with it. Everywhere I go I can hear them whispering 'bastard' behind my back. I've been deluding myself for years; I'm no Stark."

His breathing was heavy, but his voice was solemn. "I'm going to take the black. I'm going to become a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, like Uncle Benjen."

"Are you sure about this, Jon? There's glory to be had in protecting the realms, but it's a hard life. It's cold and dark and dangerous and you'll meet no friends on the Night's Watch."

Jon looked steely, his eyes filled with resolve. "I'm going to do it. There's no life for me here. At least in the Watch, each man is equal in the eyes of the others."

_'Aye. Murderers and rapists and thieves are equal in the eyes of the Night's Watch. As are bastards.'_ There was much that Harry wanted to say to him, to convince him not to go, but the boy's heart was made up and no amount of persuasion would change that.

"Then go with my blessing, Jon Snow. We'll see each other again. I'll make sure of it."

* * *

The next week passed rather uneventfully, except for Jon's rather emotional announcement to the Stark children that he was leaving them to take the black, and that he probably wouldn't see them for a long time yet. Arya had disappeared to her room for the rest of that day, while Rickon and Sansa had wept and hugged Jon, with Bran and Robb looking on with melancholy expressions. Lord Stark hadn't protested, he understood what joining the Night's Watch meant to the boy, and had instead taken him riding for a day in the Wolfswood where he explained that regardless of name, the Starks were and always would be his family.

Ten days after the royal arrival, King Robert and Lord Stark set out from Winterfell to hunt in the Wolfswood. Most of the royal entourage went with them, as did Robb and Jon. Harry had requested to stay in the castle as he had promised Arya that he would start to teach her how to wield a sword after she finished her lessons with Septa Mordane.

"First," Harry said, "We have to find a sword that fits you. For someone like you, the blade should be the same length as the distance from your shoulder to the tips of your fingers."

Arya grumbled as Harry held out sword after sword to her, before shaking his head and throwing them away. Finally, he handed her a wooden stick that had been whittled down to size.

"We'll have to have one made especially for you, if your father agrees. Till then, this'll do nicely."

Harry was a merciless taskmaster, making her repeat the forms that he taught her over and over again, until she had them memorised.

"Enough!" Arya groaned after the second hour of her lesson. "We've been at it for hours, and I still don't know how to fight."

He smiled at her frustration. "You cannot expect to learn everything in one day, little wolf. First you have to learn balance."

"Was that how you learned?"

He smiled sadly. "I'm afraid not, my little wolf. I learned on the field of battle. It was your father and your great-uncle Brynden who trained me formally. By that time I was much older than you are now." He laughed humourlessly. "I was lucky to survive as long as I did."

She smiled reassuringly at him. He hardly ever spoke of his battles in the Greyjoy Rebellion, as did her father. She had only just placed a soothing hand on his arm when sharp screams filled the air. In an instant, Harry was off, sprinting towards the sounds of screaming. He dully recognised that Arya was running after him, but in his worry, he soon outstripped her by a distance.

Harry slid to a halt below the Western Tower, and for a second his heart stopped beating.

Bran lay spread-eagle on the ground, his legs bent at a horrific angle.

A thin trickle of blood dripped from his mouth.

Cold fear gripped Harry's heart in its icy hands. He could hear the screams of the maid that had found the body, but the image of the broken boy filled his sights. Slowly, almost painfully, Harry saw the boy's chest move up and down as he took a shuddering breath. Bending down, he carefully scooped the small boy up, nestling him against his chest. He held the boy gently, unwilling to aggravate his wounds.

Harry set off at a brisk pace, not willing to risk going any faster as it could harm the boy. He pushed past Arya, shouting at her to fetch Maester Luwin. He burst into the castle proper, yelling for Lady Stark as he leapt up the stairs to Brans room. He carefully placed the boy on the bed, before grabbing a sheet and ripping it into long strips. In the back of his mind he registered that Lady Catelyn was in the room now, her wails filling the silence as she gently held her sons head to her chest. Grabbing a stick of charcoal from the hearth, Harry scrawled runes for healing and repair and strength and calm onto the strips of cloth. He could feel the force of his life, his magic, pulse through his veins as he pushed his magic into the strips of cloth, causing the runes to come to life. He felt his body slump slightly at the drain on his energy. Using such intensive magic had its drawbacks.

Maester Luwin was in the room now, his hands pressing gently on Brans body, finding what injuries needed the most attention.

"He landed badly, his back is broken and I think that one of the ribs is pushing into his lung. His legs are in a bad way, but luckily his head was not hurt."

Maester Luwin opened Brans mouth, pouring a few drops of clear liquid into his mouth. Milk of the poppy was a powerful sedative and an overdose could be more harmful than giving too little. Harry turned back to focus on his work, drawing and linking long chains of runes that he didn't remember but somehow understood. He hurried over to Brans bed, hastily wrapping the bandage so that Maester Luwin could fill them with a paste of herbs and remedies before Harry quickly bound Brans chest tightly with the bandages, as the Maester wrapped his legs in the rune enchanted dressings.

Placing one hand over Brans weakly moving chest, he took a deep breath. He had seen himself use this kind of magic in his dreams, but he had never attempted to use it in the waking world. He summoned his magic within him, enjoying the same warm feeling that he felt when he brought his runes to life. Forcing his magic into his hands with a gargantuan strength of will, Harry muttered, "Reparo."

He could feel the bones in Brans chest crack and shift back into their correct places. Harry stumbled woozily, his body exhausted after using such magic. He had never cast a spell of that sort before and it had really taken its toll on him. His head spun as he lurched away from the bed. He felt cool hands force him into a wooden chair that sat by the side of Brans bed, where he promptly lost consciousness, his head slumping down as he passed out.

Harry woke up in his own quarters; his head nestled snugly into a lumpy pillow. He groaned as he stretched, his joints cracking in protest. His muscles were sore and his head was throbbing painfully, but he felt strangely full of energy. Taking a few moments to wash his face in a basin of cold water, he set out towards Brans room to check on how the boy was doing.

Carefully he opened the door to Brans room, letting it close silently, so as not to wake the inhabitants. Maester Luwin sat in the chair beside Brans bed, reading a small book that had the word 'Remedies' written on the cover in large flowing writing. Lady Catelyn sat on Brans other side, her fingers spinning little twigs into a wreath as was her tradition when she was worried.

"How is he?" He asked quietly, disturbing the awful silence that filled the room.

Maester Luwin sighed as he put his book down. "He will live." Harry let out a breath that he hadn't realised he was holding. "His chest and back have healed nicely thanks to your bandages, but they couldn't heal his legs completely. I fear that he may never walk again. You've both been asleep for two days, but young Bran shows no sign that he will wake soon."

Lady Catelyn looked up at Harry. She was distraught, her eyes shining with tears as her expression turned pleading. "Help him, Harry. I know that you can save him! Bring me back my boy, Harry, I beg of you!"

"My lady… I can't." Catelyn let out a choked sob at his words. "I cannot fix his legs with my magic, my lady. I tried, I truly did, but my powers have limits." Harry felt bile rise up in his throat. He had failed to protect his foster family and now little Bran was going to pay the penalty for it.

Maester Luwin placed a hand on Harry's shoulder reassuringly, calming the panicking man. "Hope is not lost. If you can wake Bran and bring him back to us, he may yet surprise us. His legs may have broken badly but they will heal given time. I'm sure that with time and effort and a lot of determination, young Bran will be able to walk again, even if he needs a cane to do so."

"Is this true?" Lady Catelyn asked franticly.

Maester Luwin bowed his head. "Yes my lady. We will have need of Harry's magic again to make proper splints to ensure that his legs heal properly. It will take time, lots of time, but if the gods smile on us, then yes, it is possible." The elderly Maester coughed throatily. "However, Bran still needs to wake up. I am loath to let the boy sleep any longer, for I have seen men slumber for the rest of their lives; never waking, never living, just lying there like statues."

Harry took a deep breath. "I can wake him." He whispered.

Lady Catelyn took Harry's head in her hands, laying a kiss upon his brow, before pulling him into a hug.

"Bring my Bran back to me, and I shall grant you anything that your heart desires. House Stark will be forever in your debt."

Harry smiled thickly at her, feeling his eyes grow wet with emotion. "I love Bran like a little brother, my lady. I would gladly help him for free."

"Thank you, Harry." Cat looked like she wanted to say more, but her throat closed up around her words and she fell silent.

Harry placed a hand on Brans forehead before gently opening his eyelids with the tips of his fingers. Taking care to maintain eye connection, Harry forced the warm flow of magic, which circulated through his body, into Bran. Leaning in close to the boy, he whispered a word that he had heard in his dreams. A word of power, of seeing and revealing.

_"Legilimens." _

Darkness erupted all around him as Harry's vision faded to black. For a split second, Harry was overcome by the sensation of falling, before everything became still once more.

All was darkness. He could hear nothing. He could see nothing. He could smell nothing. His senses left him as he stumbled wildly through the inky blackness, searching for any spark that could have been Bran's consciousness.

Harry wandered blindly through the wasteland for what felt like hours, his feet tripping over themselves as he called out for Bran through chapped lips. His voice had gown hoarse by the time he was struck with an idea. Cursing his own stupidity, he bent down until his fingers brushed the cold floor. Moving quickly, he traced the symbol for tracking and finding. According to his dreams, one of the languages that he used as his runes was called Ancient Greek, but when he showed his drawings to Maester Luwin, the old man had said that they bore some resemblance to the letters of the High Valyrian tongue. The Maester hadn't been able to read Valyrian, but had promised to acquire as many texts in the dead language as was possible, in order to further Harry's abilities.

As soon as his fingers finished drawing the symbol, it burst into life, burning with a warm orange flame for a split second, before being quickly snuffed out. In the moment of light, Harry had caught sight of a small wolf pup, curled around itself, huddling not far from where he stood. He made his way quickly over to the little wolf, his fingers curling in the wolf's fur as he stroked the little pup.

"Come on, boy. It's time to go." Harry still couldn't see anything, but he could almost feel the wolf sit up and look at him. Taking the wolf in his arms, he stood up carefully, a small smile on his face. "Let's go home, Bran."

The darkness around them vanished abruptly, as Harry let go of the magic that was anchoring him to Bran's mind. He sat up with a start, his eyes snapping open as he heard the sound of Lady Catelyn's shriek. She had her arms wrapped around her son's neck, as he sat up in bed, looking blearily around him.

Harry sighed happily. He was physically exhausted, but mentally he was overjoyed. Bran was awake and active, despite the fact that he could not feel his legs. Before he could move, Lady Catelyn had pulled him into a teary hug.

"House Stark will always be in your debt, Harry." She reminded him tearfully.

Harry smiled tiredly back at her. "It was my pleasure, my lady." He muttered, as he forced himself to stay upright and not to collapse in Lady Stark's arms.

_'Winter is coming.'_ He thought drowsily. _'But it is not here yet.'_

* * *

AN: Despite the fact that instead of using OCs I'm drawing minor characters from the books, I promise that there will be absolutely no spoilers of any sort for things that happen later on, which I will make sure of. I just found that the characters seemed much more real if I didn't use OC's and these minor characters will also appear much, much later on in the story.

I felt that I had to give Harry a direwolf, but I didn't like the fact that practically every other fic just re-used that same scene, but just wrote Harry in, so I changed it a little.

The pairing for this fic will be Harry/Daenerys, but I didn't want to push them together too soon. I wanted Dany to mature into the proper khaleesi that we see in seasons 2 and 3, rather than the scared girl we're introduced to initially. That said, the next chapter will have the first meeting between Harry and Dany.

R&R.

Thanks,

Penhaligon


	3. Growing Strong

Chapter 3 – Growing Strong

* * *

Dany sighed as she rode near the front of the khalasar. Her back ached from sitting in the saddle for so long, while her hands were red from rubbing against the reins. Ser Jorah rode next to her, acting as her teacher in all things Dothraki. From the Westerosi knight, she had learned much about the language and culture of the nomadic Dothraki.

"Do the Dothraki buy their slaves?" She asked as she caught sight of a man walking in heavy shackles while carrying dozens of wine skins suspended on a rope over his shoulder.

"The Dothraki don't believe in money. Most of their slaves were given to them as gifts." Jorah grimaced. He thoroughly disliked the way the conversation was headed. Talk of slaves and battles and death and the like was not proper for a young queen to hear.

"From whom?"

"If you rule a city and you see the horde approaching, you have two choices; pay tribute or fight. An easy choice for most to make. Of course, sometimes it's not enough. Sometimes a Khal feels insulted by the number of slaves he's given. He might think the men too weak, or the women too ugly. Sometimes the Khal decides that his riders haven't had a fight in months and need the practice."

Dany blanched. Slavery was one thing that she could not abide by. It had been outlawed in the Seven Kingdoms many, many years ago, and the owning of another person still remained a great taboo in Westeros. Her mind moved quickly as she sought to fill the slightly awkward silence between the two of them that followed Jorah's admission about the Dothraki.

"Enough talk of slaves for the day, my Lady. We should talk of something else, perhaps."

Relief filled Dany as Jorah changed the subject. "Then may we hear more about young Ser Harry, Ser Jorah? If you have any tales left, that is."

Jorah frowned imperceptibly. "I'm afraid that you have heard all of the nice stories, my Lady. Only the slightly less savoury ones remain."

Dany's brow furrowed in thought. _'What unsavoury stories could there be about the perfect knight?'_

"I would still hear them, Ser Jorah, if you will?"

"Of course, my Lady." Jorah took a deep breath to steady himself. "There is no doubt in my mind that Harry is a good man. He has strict morals, which is unusual enough nowadays, but you must remember that first and foremost, he is a fighter."

Dany's eyes glazed over, as so often happened when Ser Jorah regaled her with tales of his friend, as her imagination took over and she was immersed in the story.

"Before the walls of Seagard, Harry fought the eldest son of the kraken, Rodrik Greyjoy, in single combat. By the end of their fight, Harry had the Greyjoy on his knees, some even say that he was begging for mercy, but Harry had no mercy left in him to give to the kraken. With a swing of his sword, he took the head off the kneeling man without any regret."

Dany was a little shocked at that. Real knights didn't decapitate defenceless men. "I thought you said he was a kind and honourable man."

"Aye, my Lady, he is, but there is a time for kindness and a time for strength. In the Iron Islands, they still call Harry the 'Sword of the North' out of fear and respect of his strength. Men will not follow a leader that they do not respect, and how can they respect someone that appears weak."

Daenerys pondered his words carefully. "Strength and compassion. Are they not exclusive of each other?"

"No, my Lady, they are not. A good ruler must have both, and know when to use them. Strength on its own will corrupt a ruler, while kindness on its own can bring a kingdom to ruin."

Dany looked around as his words sunk in. What had started as a story had quickly become a lesson in ruling; something that she would freely admit to knowing little about.

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the slave with the wine-skins stumble and slow down, causing one of the riders to peel off the side of the column and approach him, a leather strap in hand. Dany winced harshly as the blows rained down onto the defenceless slave's back, as the Dothraki overseer yelled at him to keep up.

"Tell them all to stop." She ordered Jorah, a little uncertainly.

"The whole khalasar? For how long?" He questioned incredulously.

_'Strength and compassion.'_ She repeated to herself fervently, as she steeled her nerves.

"Until I tell them otherwise." She said imperiously.

A small smile grew on Jorah's face at the show of strength, before he held his hand out for the train of horsemen to stop. Slowly, the procession ground to a halt, on the whim of the khaleesi.

"You're beginning to speak like a true queen."

Dany shook her head, almost a bit forlornly. She doubted that she would ever be a queen. She doubted that she would ever return home to Westeros.

"Not a queen. A khaleesi."

* * *

The Wall loomed uninvitingly over the rolling hills that marked the end of The Gift; the large tracts of land that had been given to the Night's Watch by House Stark –and later expanded upon by Queen Alyssane Targaryen- to aid them in their service to the Kingdoms. The Wall was a sheer white cliff face that climbed high above them, its top obscured by the thick clouds that heralded the first snows of the change of seasons. Before it reached the Wall, the Kingsroad disintegrated from the cobbled path it had followed from Kings Landing into a winding dirt track that carved through the grass.

Jon Snow looked wearily upon his new home. It looked nothing like what he had heard in the stories from his father and his uncle. He had expected a glittering bastion of ice, manned by the most honourable and dutiful sons in the Seven Kingdoms. He hadn't expected the dull grey affair that he was greeted with, manned by rapists and thugs who had been shipped to their post in a cage. He knew that the life of a brother of the Night's Watch would be a hard one, but he had also been told that there was honour in such a life. A life of duty. He almost snorted at the thought. What honour was there to be had, standing at the edge of the world, half forgotten by the people you were protecting?

A dull _thwack _shocked Jon out of his morose thoughts, as Harry cuffed him around the head.

"Come on, Jon, the Lord-Commander's expecting us." Harry grinned as he nosed his mare further forwards, widening the gap between the two. "You wouldn't want to anger the great Lord-Commander before you even meet him, would you?"

Jon groaned as Benjen chuckled lightly from behind the two young men. Harry had been needling and teasing Jon for the last ten days as they made their slow passage through the Wolfswood and around the Frostfangs. Usually, Benjen could make the journey in a little under a week, but Harry seemed intent on taking as long as he possibly could to reach their destination, as he made the most of the spending as much time with his surrogate brother as he possibly could. By the gods, Benjen knew that Jon would have little time to spare for his family in Winterfell anymore. The life of a sworn brother was a tough one, and Benjen was sure that Jon would make the rangers. The life of a ranger was the hardest of all, and more often than not, the shortest of all the Night's Watch.

A little ways further down the road, two large direwolf pups were playing with each other, yipping and yowling as they darted this way and that. Ghost and Padfoot were still pups, but they were already almost the size of a normal wolf and they had plenty further to grow. Direwolves had not been seen south of the Wall for over two hundred years, but there were many legends about the great size that they reached; that when full-grown, they stood as large as a pony and able to crush bone with a snap of their jaws.

At the back of the little party rode a bundle of furs, piled high, with an opening for Tyrion Lannister to poke his head through. Catching sight of how close they were to the Wall, Tyrion groaned in relief.

Harry chuckled from the head of the column as Tyrion's groan reached him. "Don't worry my lord, we'll have you out of this cold soon enough."

Harry rather liked the Imp. Except for his initial rudeness at the feast at Winterfell, the dwarf had been an enjoyable, if a bit blunt, companion. They had struck a friendship when Harry had noticed that the little Lord's nose was constantly buried in a book, something which confused Jon to no end.

"Why do you read so much?" Jon had asked him one night when they stopped to make camp.

Tyrion had answered him immediately, "My brother has his sword, King Robert has his war hammer and I have my mind… and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone if it is to keep its edge. That is why I read so much, Jon Snow."

Harry had seen a measure of the true Tyrion in that moment. He was much more than a drinking, whoring Imp as so many would portray him. He had a deep cunning to him, an intelligence that Harry had only seen before in Maester Luwin, and one that Harry himself strived to emulate. He had very rarely seen someone who prized the wisdom that could be found within the pages of a book as much as Tyrion did. In Winterfell, Harry had had limited access to books and scrolls and the like, only being able to read the books on magic that Maester Luwin acquired from the Citadel in Oldtown. Of the books that the Maester had given him most referred only to magic through servitude to a god, in a few cases the Lord of Light, in others the Seven, or yet in others still the Old Gods.

However, in a few cases, Maester Luwin had acquired books from the collection of Archmaester Marwyn, the foremost expert on Magic and the Occult that the Citadel had to offer. One such book lay tucked under Harry's furs. It was a small book, bound in fading leather and filled with tattered yellowing pages, but the words were written in High Valyrian, which Harry oft referred to as Greek. Maester Luwin had pressed the book secretly into Harry's hands just as he left Winterfell on his journey to White Harbour, almost a fortnight before the King's arrival at Winterfell. The book spoke of the power of the sorcerers of the Valyrian Freehold that had once conquered much of the Eastern Continent. The book spoke of the power that shackled dragons and brought great empires to their knees at the sound of a few words.

Unfortunately, much, if not all, of the magic in the book remained outside of Harry's grasp. However, the book did detail one specific thing that all great sorcerers used, something he had often seen in his own dreams; a wand.

According to the book, a wand had to be made of the heartwood of a living tree, of a tree that felt the pulse of magic around it, a tree that was in tune with the balance of nature. Later, runes had to be carved carefully into the wood, before being 'inked in the blood of two sides.' Harry had pondered long and hard over the last part of the wand-making ritual, before finally deciding upon his interpretation. 'Two sides' would be the two faces of a coin; life and death, ice and fire, light and darkness, or any other such opposites. The last part of this ritual had been one of the reasons that he had asked to escort Jon to the Wall before making the journey to Kings Landing.

Harry shook his head to clear his thoughts, before urging his mare on a little faster. They had dawdled on the road for long enough. They covered the distance to the Wall quickly, arriving at the entrance to Castle Black just before noon. The Kingsroad ran straight up the castle's causeway, ending at the black steel portcullis that was slowly raised as the small party approached. Harry whistled sharply to get Padfoot's attention before he gestured with his head towards Jon. The direwolf, understanding his message, stalked over to Jon before plonking himself happily onto the ground by the young man, his tongue lolling languidly out of his mouth.

"You stay with the other recruits." Harry whispered into Jon's ear as they dismounted. "And try to be inconspicuous; you don't want to start any trouble before the Lord-Commander has a look at you."

Jon nodded tersely as Harry swept into the castle, following Benjen as he made his way to the Lord-Commander's quarters. Tyrion caught his eye before the Imp shrugged and went off to find some food and a mug of ale to wash it down with.

Inside the castle, Benjen knocked smartly on the doors to the Lord-Commander's quarters before opening the doors, not bothering to wait for a reply.

"You're back."

"Aye, Lord-Commander."

He opened his mouth to say more, but before he could his eyes caught sight of Harry, trailing in behind the First Ranger and he paused, his mouth closing as he fixed Harry with a pointed stare.

"I'll talk to you at sundown." He said to Benjen, dismissing him carelessly. "Leave us."

Benjen nodded, a little put out at being sent away so curtly, but he could understand that the two wanted to have words in private.

"Ser Harry. I didn't expect to see you again in this lifetime."

Harry let a slightly nervous smile grace his face as he replied in turn. "Nor I, you."

"I haven't seen you since… since Jorah left."

Harry's face darkened at that. He remembered all too clearly protesting against Lord Stark's decision. He remembered when Lord Stark had proclaimed him guilty and sentenced him to death for his crimes. He remembered being sent off to Bear Island to find that Jorah had left with his wife, leaving everything behind, including Longclaw, House Mormont's ancestral Valyrian steel blade, which Harry had brought to the Lord-Commander when he brought news of his sons betrayal.

"That was a nasty business, Lord Jeor."

"Aye, it was." The two men sat in silence for a while. Harry was unwilling to speak, while Jeor seemed lost in memories of his son. "Have you heard from him?"

Harry shook his head. "No, my lord, I've heard nothing."

Jeor Mormont grunted. "For the best, I suppose." He sat up straighter in his chair, before clapping his hands together. "Now what can I do for you, Ser Harry? You wouldn't have come all the way to the Wall just to drop off a bastard, would you?"

Harry's jaw tightened a little. "That was part of the reason, but I have a request of the Night's Watch." He trailed off. "Though it might be a bit much to ask of you."

Jeor growled deep in his throat. "Speak, lad! I owe you a debt of thanks for returning Longclaw to me after my son left. If your favour is not too much, I will gladly grant it."

Harry nodded gratefully. "My lord, I ask that you grant me passage to your godswood, and allow me to take a sliver of wood from your heart tree."

Jeor sat up straight. "The godswood of Castle Black lies beyond the Wall." He said bluntly.

"Aye, my lord, I know that but that is what I require, so that is what I ask of you."

The Lord-Commander pressed his line of questioning. "You mean to go north of the Wall, into wildling territory, just so that you can cut a piece of kindling?"

"Aye, my lord." Harry didn't bother correcting the old bear lord. The young knight was tired and frustrated of their terse conversation. It wouldn't be a piece of kindling, but a sliver of the heart of a weirwood tree that had been at the centre of the godswood of Castle Black for eight thousand years; ever since Bran the Builder raised the Wall with ice and magic. In that small grove of nine weirwood trees, known only as the nine sentinels, Bran the Builder had knelt and thanked the Old Gods for helping the First Men to banish the Long Night and raise the Wall in their defence. In that small copse flowed the old nature magic of the Children-of-the-Forest.

"Do you wish to offend the Gods, lad, by cutting one of their trees?"

"The weirwood trees have faces carved into them; I hardly believe that the Gods would oppose me trimming a thin branch."

Jeor grunted once more, before getting up and pacing back and forth within his quarters. "On the morrow," he grumbled, "I shall send you out to accompany a group of Rangers who are going on patrol. They will escort you to the godswood, but they will leave you there and carry on. You must make your own way back to the castle, I've not got men to spare to take you by the hand and make sure you don't get lost."

Harry smiled in appreciation. "Thank you, Lord-Commander."

The Lord-Commander waved him away impatiently, as he shouted for a steward to fetch the First Ranger and bring him to the Lord-Commander's quarters.

Harry walked hastily through the castle before reaching the training yard where a morose looking Jon sat beside a glowing hearth. Harry crossed the yard quickly, sitting down next to his friend before deftly picking up a piece of coal from the grate. Pulling out a piece of parchment that he had quietly stolen from a passing steward, he began to scrawl a note on the paper, the blackened ash forming the letters of the dead language of High Valyrian. He folded the paper quickly before pushing it into Jon's palm.

"I need you to do me a favour, Jon." He hissed. "I need you to deliver this to the Maester of Castle Black, but I need it done without anyone else noticing."

Jon looked uncomfortable. "With your … skills, wouldn't you be more able to slip past without being noticed?"

Harry shook his head. "The practice of the occult is frowned upon by the Night's Watch, and I cannot have them angrily chasing me from the Wall for a public display of such tawdry magic." _'A small exaggeration, but Jon need not know that.'_

"Alright," He said finally, his hand clenching around the note. "Where is he?"

Harry pointed up towards the Raven Tower, where the Maester of the Castle was busy at work, feeding and maintaining the birds.

"Wish me luck." Jon said as he sidled past the other recruits that were filling the training yard. He moved silently as he slipped through the throng of people towards his target.

_'Good luck.'_ Harry thought gloomily.

* * *

Harry rose the next morning with the Sun, eager as he was to continue on his journey. The chill air was silent as three figures descended into the tunnels that stretched beneath Castle Black before burrowing through the Wall and leading to a grand gate, guarded by a black steel portcullis. Padfoot had disappeared sometime in the night, probably to hunt what small game was found so far north. Harry didn't mind much, the wolf was always back by sundown and it was good for him to spend some time away from Harry.

The two rangers remained as silent as the grave while the gate creaked open and a cold wind buffeted them in the face. Without a word, they started moving, leading Harry along a thin path through the trees that had been lost in a thick blanket of snow. The wind whistled through the trees, the sound echoing ominously all around them as they made their slow path through the Haunted Forest. Every so often they would come across a weirwood tree, a face carved into the trunk, its eyes collecting the red sap that gave it the look of weeping blood. Harry sat taller in his stirrups when he caught sight of each weirwood, only to sigh and relax back into his saddle when he caught the almost imperceptible shaking of the head from one of the rangers in front of him.

The cold sun was high above them by the time they reached the entrance to the godswood. Eight trees, with barks of pale ivory, grew strong around the banks of a small, tranquil pond. From the centre of the little pond rose a tall and powerful looking weirwood; the heart wood. It stood proudly, its bare arms rising high into the sky as red tears dripped from its carved eyes and ran down the face that had been engraved on the trunk.

Harry could almost taste the magic that pulsed through the grove. For a second, he thought that he could taste the cupric, metallic tang of fresh blood, as an unnaturally warm feeling filled his belly. His fingers ran over the rough bark of one of the trees and he felt a small tingle erupt at the tip of each digit.

_'There's magic in these trees.'_

"We must leave you here. Good luck." It was the first words that either of the rangers had spoken to Harry and they startled Harry from his observations, but he was grateful to hear them. He nodded politely at the heavily cloaked men as they slowly rode deeper into the forest, leaving him alone in a suddenly oppressive silence.

Not wanting to stay too long in the grove, Harry set to work, pulling out a small knife from his belt. One of the branches of the central weirwood extended far over the edge of the pond, coming to rest just above Harry's head. Within a few minutes, Harry had cut himself a straight, thick twig from the branch, of about three-hands in length. He had cut a piece larger than he intended to end up with, as he still had to be able to whittle and carve his runes into the wood. Hurriedly tucking the twig into his saddlebags, he mounted his mare quickly, before beginning his trek back towards Castle Black.

It had taken him half a day's ride to reach the godswood, but he had spent less than a half hour in the grove, choosing to complete his task as quickly as he could, before returning to the relative warmth and comfort of Castle Black.

Harry reached the gate-in-the-Wall soon after the Sun had begun to set. The cold had set in and a light smattering of fresh snow was blowing in from the Land of Always Winter. He made his way through the tunnel as fast as he could, hurrying his horse until they reached the castle's stables.

Harry ran through the castle, not heading towards his guest quarters next to Tyrion's, but to the Raven Tower, and the quarters of Maester Aemon. Harry burst unceremoniously into the old man's rooms, panting as he apologised to the old Maester. The old man had an unreadable expression on his face as he regarded Harry, his wizened hands clasped tightly over his chest.

"It is not often that I receive a missive in the tongue of my forebears, requesting my presence at a clandestine meeting." He began in a deep croaky voice. "And it is even less often that the person who summoned me here so rudely would make me wait upon their arrival for almost an hour."

Harry had the courtesy to look abashed as he blushed in embarrassment, murmuring yet another apology. Aemon's face softened but he still held the sharp, questioning gaze he remembered seeing on the face of Maester Luwin.

"Now what is this about?"

"Maester Aemon Targaryen, Second of your name, I would ask a favour of you, and in return I will be willing to grant you any gift that is within my power to give. Are you agreeable to this?"

The old man almost guffawed with laughter; instead his chuckles quickly turned into a huffing, wheezing cough as his amusement racked his chest.

"What gift would a man of my age want? What gift would a sworn brother of the Night's Watch want? I wish for nothing from you, lad, but I would hear what favour you would ask of me. You interest me, young Ser knight."

Harry had thought as much. There was nothing that Harry could give that would interest the man who had once turned down the Iron Throne of Westeros and willingly taken the black in order to protect the rule of his brother, King Aegon V. Maester Aemon had given up the throne for the good of the realm.

Harry switched from the Common Tongue to High Valyrian, his tongue stumbling slightly over the almost familiar words.

_"I ask only for a few drops of blood, of your life-blood; the blood of the dragon. Give me a few beads of the blood that runs like fire through your veins, and I will do everything in my power to protect all that you hold dear to you."_

Aemon grunted softly in recognition of the request. _"A sorcerer, at your age? You are full of surprises."_

_"How did you…?"_

_"Who else but a wizard would ask an old man for his blood? Blood has always been important in Valyrian magicks."_

Harry smiled gently at the astute Maester. _"So, what say you to my request?"_

_"It is an odd request, but you ask much of me. To give up one's life-blood is no small matter."_

_"I understand that, my lord, and I am willing to offer you anything that you desire in return."_

The old man sighed heavily. _"Twice in my life, have my vows been tested, and twice have I remained true to them. I am an old man, not long for this world, and I have seen my House fall from the graces of the Seven and into the ashes. It is my wish that I see my family restored to their honour, if not their glory. You say that you can protect those that I want protected?"_

_"Aye, I can and I shall."_

_"Then do so." _He pulled a small glass vial from a pouch on his belt before picking up a small dagger and cutting deeply into the palm of his hand. As the dark red droplets dripped languidly into the flask, he began to speak once more. _"It is done. Bring honour back to House Targaryen, but never forget your duty to the realm." _

The old man's hand shot out, gripping Harry by the arm in a grip that was surprisingly firm for someone of his age. _"Remember, a good man seeks to protect his family, but a great man strives to protect his world, as is his duty. I believe that you can accomplish truly great things, but you must be willing to make sacrifices in order to do so."_

A melancholy expression graced his face. _"Your family will suffer, your pride will wither, and you will feel much pain, but that is the path that great men must take if they are to do their duty for the good of the many."_

Harry bowed low as Aemon handed him the vial full of his blood. _"I swear, my Lord Aemon, that I will not fail you."_

He bowed again, before withdrawing from the Maester's quarters. He hurried through the dark passageways that snaked through Castle Black, moving towards the great hall where most of the men were eating. He stopped at the hall for only a second, sparing only the time it took to yank Jon from his place on a bench near a corner of the hall, pulling him along as they both disappeared into the darkness.

"What are you doing?" Hissed Jon in a disquieted tone.

"Not here." Growled Harry in return.

Harry pulled Jon through the castle until they reached Harry's temporary accommodations; a set of rooms perched high in the King's Tower.

"Close the door." Harry murmured to Jon as he took a seat at the large ironwood desk, pulling out the shard of the weirwood heart tree that he had carried since the morning. Harry fumbled with his belt, before his hands found what they were looking for, and he drew the smallest knife that he owned. Setting both the knife and twig on the table, he tossed Jon an empty glass vial, identical to the one that Aegon had filled.

"I need a favour."

"Sure." Jon said without any hesitation. Harry grinned at the boy's trust in him, a warm feeling blossoming in his chest.

"I need you to fill that vial with blood… your blood."

"Why?"

"Fire and ice." Harry said simply, offering only three words as a cryptic answer, before turning back to the desk, grabbing the knife and setting to work.

Jon sighed, but didn't bother to question him. Instead, he deftly opened the palm of his left hand with the blade of his knife, tilting his hand so that the blood pooled into the vial.

Harry carved the twig skilfully, the knife dancing nimbly over the small knots in the wood, until he had produced a thinly tapered wand of wood, a bit less than two hands in length. Bringing the wand closer to his eyes, he began slowly inscribing the layers of rune-chains that would direct his power and act as a focus for his magic.

Harry didn't push his magic into the runes when he carved them, as he usually did, instead he held his magic back, even to the point where it was fighting against him, yearning to flow into the set channels of runes that had been laid out before it. The runes ran round the face of the wand, running all the way to the sharply pointed tip.

He was aware that Jon was standing behind him, the blood on his palm already dry as he kept a silent vigil over Harry's shoulder. With a final stroke of his knife, Harry regarded his handiwork with an appraising eye. The pale scratchings were difficult to see as they blended into the white flesh of the wood.

Producing the vial full of Aemon's blood, Harry dipped a thick raven feather quill into the dark red liquid, before lowering his head to the wand. Carefully, he traced round half of the runes that spiralled round the wand, dipping his quill back into the blood every so often. Harry took care not to accidentally trace the wrong rune with the wrong blood. The layers of runes were grouped together into two major clusters; one for fire and one for ice, and it would not do for Harry to mix the two up.

Not bothering with words, he held his hand out to Jon who pressed his own vial into Harry's hands. All the while, Harry's eyes remained fixed on the wand, turning it slowly in his hands to let a rivulet of blood drip along the runes for fire. He repeated the process with Jon's blood, painstakingly inking in the other half of the runes.

When he finished, Harry leaned back in his chair and sighed happily. The wand looked terrifying; the pale wood and bright scarlet runes clashing monstrously, looking not dissimilar to that of blood and bone.

"Is it done?" Whispered Jon nervously. He had seen Harry work his runes before, but he had never seen sorcery of this kind.

"Not yet." Harry said breathlessly, his hands twitching with excitement. Running his fingers over the wood, careful not to smudge the blood, Harry pressed his thumb onto the fatter end of the wand, on a rune which he had inked once with both the blood of the dragon and of the wolf.

Gritting his teeth resolutely, he forced his magic into his thumb and into the wand itself. He felt the now-familiar fire begin to burn in his belly as more and more of his power was pushed into the wand. With a roar of power, the runes flared into life, as white fire ran down the line of each rune, charring the symbols into the pale wood. The wand thrummed with power as small sparks erupted from the end of it.

Harry grinned tiredly at Jon, as the stress of the day took its toll on Harry. He had spent almost twelve hours in the saddle, crossing the Wall and going where few men had been before, just to find the perfect piece of wood for his wand. He had tempered the wood with the essence of fire; the blood of the last dragon left in Westeros, and with the essence of ice; the ancient and noble blood of House Stark. The end result was a terrifyingly beautiful weapon. The pale wood looked cold to the eye, but felt hot to the touch, as Harry's own magic sang with joy at the feeling of holding his own wand.

Deep within Harry's core, his power roiled and burned as his magic ignited as the core within his wand connected with his own magical reserves. His magic burned like a wildfire through his veins, setting every nerve in his body alight. Harry shivered heavily as he felt his magic course through his body, forcing him to sit down on the bed as he temporarily lost control of his limbs.

"Are you alright?" Jon asked cautiously.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He said slowly. "Just give me a minute. The magic really took it out of me."

"I bet it did." He smirked at Harry, still a little tense from the sight of such magic.

"Relax, Jon. I'm not going to bite you… I already have your blood, remember?"

The tension left Jon's face at Harry's jape. He chortled, before poking fun at the young wizard.

"What kind of sorcerer are you that you collapse after using the slightest bit of magic?"

Harry sighed. "I'm getting better at it. I'm perfectly adept at using my runes, but casting spells requires much more effort. I guess I'll have to work on it during my journey to the capital."

Jon's eyebrows shot up. "You're going to Kings Landing?"

"Your lord father sent a raven to Maester Aemon. Apparently, an urgent matter has come up that requires my attention in the capital. I intend to leave on the morrow."

A melancholy expression graced the young man's face. "This will be the last time I see you for many months at the least."

"Aye, it will be. Fret not, young Crow, for on my return to Winterfell, I'll come and visit you."

A watery smile was all he received in return from Jon, before the taller man pulled Harry into an embrace. A private goodbye seemed much more favourable to both men than one in front of half of the Night's Watch.

"Fare thee well, Potter. I look forward to your next visit."

Harry laughed hollowly.

"Fare thee well, Snow. Try not to die before I return, eh?"

Jon smiled sadly at Harry.

"No promises."

* * *

AN: The chapter was meant to have Harry meet Dany, but the scene at the wall just grew and grew until it was far too long for me to have their meeting, but it will be sometime in the next two chapters.

Now Harry has his wand, but it won't mean that he becomes super strong; there are many factors which would limit his strength and knowledge of magic, but he'll slowly get better with time.


	4. Pride and Purpose

Chapter 4- Pride and Purpose

* * *

Harry groaned in contentment as he sunk into the piping hot water. His fingers danced along the edge of the thin copper tub as his muscles warmed and relaxed.

It had been a long journey to King's Landing. He had left the Wall more than a month ago, retracing his steps to reach Winterfell a week later, where he was confronted by Robb who told him of his mother's suspicions that the Lannisters were responsible for Bran's fall. Harry wasn't all that surprised to hear that the Queen and the Kingslayer were the two principal suspects; he didn't like or trust either of the twins, having neither heard nor seen anything good about them. Harry, however, was not entirely sure of their guilt in the matter. Robb had voiced his mother's accusations vehemently, but they had little evidence more than a strand of golden hair that could have been there for a week. If the Lannisters truly were to blame, Harry expected that they would have attempted to silence Bran, for fear that he might eventually remember something, but they had not made any move of the sort. For the remainder of the visit, the lions had been quiet and sincerely empathetic in their treatment towards the Starks.

Harry was more than surprised to learn that Lady Catelyn had left Winterfell and was heading for King's Landing in secret. Harry didn't like the idea of Lady Cat leaving an injured Bran without either his mother or father, but Robb and Maester Luwin seemed to be taking good care of the young boy. Harry had thought that Bran would have remembered something about his incident if he gave him time for his mind to collect itself, but Bran still seemed to have no recollection of how he came to fall. Still, Harry was almost certain that deep within Bran lay the knowledge of who pushed him from the tower, a knowledge that would only be revealed through time. During his brief stay at Winterfell, he spent much time with Bran, who had started to tell him about the odd and seemingly prophetic dreams that he had started having. Before he left the castle again, Harry had spent a long time talking to the boy before Harry gave him a small book for him to write his thoughts and dreams in, in the hopes that he would be able to decipher his dreams.

After spending a few days in Winterfell to rest, he was soon back on the road again, heading south along the Kingsroad. His journey had been long, lonely and exhausting. Each night before he slept, he would practice casting spells with his new wand, training his magic until he was on the point of collapse. The training was brutal; Harry was not one to do things the easy way, and each night he went to bed sore, his magic depleted and his muscles aching. Throughout his journey, he slept under hedges by the side of the road; his head nestled comfortingly into Padfoot's fur.

It had taken a month's hard riding for Harry to reach King's Landing, pushing his mare half to death to get there as soon as possible, as demanded by Lord Stark, but eventually he had reached the capital.

His joints cracked as he stretched in the tub, constantly regulating the temperature of the water with a small heating charm from his wand. He grinned widely at his own casual use of magic. Despite the fact that almost all of the world-shattering magic that he had read and dreamed about was still beyond his ability, he was now more than capable of keeping up basic charms and spells without too much effort. He relaxed in the water, closing his eyes as the dirt from the road washed off of him. He took care not to let himself unwind too much, for fear of falling asleep. Ever since he had made his wand, his dreams of magic and his 'previous life' had become more and more frequent, up to the point where Harry feared sleeping. Each night he exhausted himself before falling asleep in the hopes of having a dreamless rest.

Splashing some warm water on his face, Harry rubbed the dirt off his face, his fingers running through his wet hair, brushing out all the filth that had accumulated in his hair since he left Winterfell.

Out of the silence, a high pitched squeal caused Harry's eyes to snap open violently, catching a glimpse of fiery red hair as it fled from the room.

"Seven Hells, Sansa! Why didn't you knock?" Harry screamed in a less than manly fashion as he pulled himself out of the bath, quickly wrapping a thin, scratchy towel around his waist. Tiny rivulets of water dripped down his chest as he ran his hand through his hair again, this time to move his long black hair out of his eyes.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Harry!" Her eyes were wide, comically so, as she stared at the still only half-dressed Harry. Her hands quickly rose to her face, covering her eyes, as a dark red blush spread across her face.

"Oh Gods, Sansa, why are you here?" Harry spoke frenziedly as he bundled clothes together franticly, eventually finding his cloth jerkin, which he rapidly pulled over his head. "Close your eyes properly!" He barked at Sansa, as he caught her peeking from between her fingers.

"I'm sorry!" She repeated, closing her fingers again. Harry made sure that her eyes were firmly shut before he pulled a pair of trousers on, underneath the towel.

"It's okay." Harry said, a bit breathlessly. "It's alright, I'm not angry, I'm just … I'm just… Oh, why didn't you knock?"

Sansa giggled, before slapping a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. "Oh Gods Harry, I am so, so sorry. It's just that Arya was with her 'dancing master' and I had finished my sewing lessons in the maidenvault with the Septa, when father mentioned that you had arrived in the city, and that you would be leaving soon, so I just thought that I would come and visit you." Sansa babbled quickly in her nervousness.

Harry placed a hand on her shoulder reassuringly as his brow furrowed in thought. "Your father let you come here on your own?"

Sansa looked almost scandalised at that. "Of course not! Jeyne's waiting just outside with a pair of guards."

Harry groaned in annoyance. He wasn't overly fond of Jeyne Poole. "Did you have a reason for bringing such an escort?"

Sansa shrugged noncommittally. "Father won't let me leave the Tower of the Hand without at least two men guarding me. He says it's not safe for me to gallivant around King's Landing alone."

Harry grunted. "He's right. King's Landing is a dangerous city, far more so than Winterfell. You must take care here."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "You sound just like my father, Harry. You shouldn't worry, I'll be very careful. I'll take my guards with me everywhere."

"Not just that, Sansa. You can't trust anyone here; not Joffrey, nor the Queen, nor the Lannisters and not even the King. This _place_," he spat, "is a cess-pool, filled with filth and scum, all willing to eat each other for any glimpse of their own place in the sun."

Sansa almost scoffed. "You're exaggerating, Harry. I will take care, but there's no need for fear mongering."

Harry sighed. It was pointless trying to argue the matter with Sansa. Harry had pressed the case for care and caution many times, and he could do no more. The rest would be up to her.

"How was your journey?" She asked in a small voice.

Harry made a face, setting off Sansa's giggles again. "It was horrible; wet and cold and lonely and boring. I only had Padfoot for company, and you know how bad he is at intelligent conversation."

A deep growl echoed from underneath the bed and Harry froze. He hadn't realised that the wolf was in the room with him. A black paw shot out from under a pile of clothes, scratching at Harry's ankles before retreating back into the cosiness of its lair.

Harry paused, remembering something that Ned had told him when he reached King's Landing.

"I heard about Lady." Harry spoke softly, in an apologetic tone. "I'm truly sorry."

He pulled her into a tight hug, ignoring the fact that his wet hair was dripping water onto her dress. She buried her face into his warm shoulder as he just held her for a minute, whispering comforting words into her ear. When she pulled away, he could see that her eyes were wet, but no tears had fallen.

"It's okay. I miss her a lot." She took a shuddering breath as she steadied herself. "I know that it was my fault that she died. If I hadn't lied and supported the prince…"

Harry cut her off immediately. "No, no, sweet girl. It wasn't your fault. You did what you had to do to preserve good relations with your future husband. It was Joffrey's fault, his and the Queen's. You are not to blame for what happened."

She sniffed heavily. "Father and Jeyne and Septa Mordane keep telling me the same thing, but I know that I'm to blame. Father even thought that I'd blamed him for Lady, and Arya won't even speak to me anymore because she lost Nymeria!"

"It's alright. I'm sure Arya doesn't blame you, she's just angry with the prince!" He pulled her into another hug, in an attempt to console the borderline hysterical girl. "Come here."

"It's just… I feel like I've lost a part of myself. Like I lost my left hand." Her muffled voice sounded from against his chest.

"What do you mean?"

Sansa grew nervous. "I used to have dreams through Lady… We would run together through the grass, and I would watch her hunt through her own eyes. Then she died, and the dreams stopped altogether. For a few brief moments each night, we were one, and now I feel like I've lost that little part of my life."

"Your brother… Bran… has the same kind of dreams with Summer. He says that since his fall he oft has dreams where his mind melded into the mind of his wolf." Sansa looked up at Harry, a surprised look on her face. "But since then, he seems to be dreaming of a three-eyed-crow more and more. Have you dreamt of anything else?"

Sansa shook her head frantically. "Just Lady… Oh Gods, what have I done?"

Harry squeezed her shoulders soothingly. From within his lair, underneath Harry's bed, Padfoot emerged silently, his paws padding softly against the warm stone fur, before he curled himself around Sansa's feet, wrapping her legs in what would be a wolf-hug.

The three of them stood there for a while, silent, as both boy and wolf sought to help the emotional girl. Harry kissed her tenderly on the forehead, his dry lips just brushing her skin for a second. Her dark red blush returned in full force, but her breathing slowly calmed as her heart slowed down in their relaxing grip.

"There. Now, isn't that better?" Harry smiled down at her. "Just relax, sweet girl. You haven't done anything; what little part of you that you've lost will come back to you in time, so do not fret."

Sansa gave him a little watery smile, causing Harry's face to light up with a big grin. Sansa was like a little sister to him; he had been her favourite carer since she was just a small child, he had tucked her in at night, read her stories, looked after her when she was sick. She was his little sister and he hated seeing her hurt.

A sharp knock on the door startled them, causing Harry to let go of Sansa. He pulled the door open to reveal a doe eyed Jeyne Poole, her fingers gripping a slim letter tightly.

"A message for you, Ser Harry, from Lord Stark." Her eyes grew wider as she saw Sansa's wet, red eyes and Harry's half open cloth jerkin. Harry pulled the letter out of her hands with a muted 'thank you' before breaking the wax seal depicting a stylised red hand clutching a crown firmly.

Harry grunted as he read the contents of the letter. "Your father summons me, my Lady. I must go."

Sansa smiled softly. "I'll come with you. I need to return to the Tower of the Hand anyway."

Harry shook his head. "Your father has summoned me to the dungeons of the Red Keep, my Lady. It might be best if we part for a little while and you return to your studies."

It was a small lie, really. Ned had summoned Harry to one of Petyr Baelish's establishments instead. Harry however, would be caught dead before he admitted to Sansa that he was going to meet her father in a whorehouse, regardless of the fact that Ned would never take a whore.

"Very well, Ser Harry. Try not to take too long, Arya has a 'dancing lesson' in an hour and she mentioned to father that she wanted you to come and see her dance." Her tone was a little melancholy at that, not liking the gulf that was growing between her and her sister.

"Maybe we can go together and show our support for Arya?"

Sansa perked up at that. "I'd like that."

After ushering the two girls and their guards out of his quarters, Harry dressed himself properly. Now wearing a light boiled leather jerkin with his sword and a dagger belted onto his waist, he hurried out of his quarters and through the city. He made good time through the city, stopping only to toss a few silver stags at the most heart wrenching of the beggars that lined the streets of King's Landing from the gates of the Red Keep all the way down to Fleabottom.

He announced himself at the gates to the Mockingbird's compound, before he was smoothly let past the gates and into the house itself. In the back of the house, in Littlefinger's quarters sat Lord and Lady Stark, opposite Littlefinger himself.

"Lady Stark! I wasn't expecting to see you here." Harry exclaimed.

"Then where were you expecting to see me?" She teased gently.

"Not here, it would seem." Said Littlefinger in jest.

Harry nodded politely at the Lord's comment before speaking to Lady Catelyn again.

"I had heard from Robb that you had left Winterfell in secret. I wish you had waited for my return, my Lady, then we might have made the journey together."

"I'm sorry Harry. I had to leave quickly if I wanted to reach King's Landing in time."

Harry nodded in acceptance, before turning to Lord Stark, who had been completely ignored in the conversation up to this point.

"Harry." Ned acknowledged. "How was your journey?"

Harry waved away his niceties. "It was fine, my Lord. Now I must ask, why have you sent for me, and from such a place?"

"You don't like whores, Ser Harry?" Asked Littlefinger quietly, his voice akin to the rustle of soft silk; smooth and enticing. "Whoring is the oldest profession in Westeros, after all."

Harry chose his words carefully; aware that insulting the Master of Coin or his profession would not be a wise move. "I see no problem in men paying for bed-mates, but it is not for me, my Lord. We each have our vices, Lord Baelish, and though it might be so for many men, an abundance of lust is not one of my more pressing faults."

"Then what are?"

Harry smiled poisonously. "I'm afraid you'll have to find out for yourself, my Lord."

Littlefinger's eyes danced with mirth as Harry stepped deftly around his questions. "You have a head for the game, Ser Harry."

"And what game would that be, my Lord?" Harry asked inquisitively.

"The only game that there is, boy. The game of thrones." Baelish's eyes flashed dangerously for the briefest of moments.

"Enough chatter." Said Lord Stark firmly. "I called you here to give counsel in our time of need. We trust you and your judgement."

Harry almost smiled with pride, but he kept his face devoid of expression at the sombre words.

"Why here, though?"

"Lady Catelyn's presence in the city must remain a secret, so naturally she cannot stay in the Tower of the Hand." Littlefinger said languorously.

"Indeed." Ned paused for a moment. "Did Robb tell you of our suspicions?"

"Aye, he did. He mentioned that Lady Cat suspected that the Lannisters were behind Bran's fall. He did also mention that there was little evidence to suggest that it was them, though."

Littlefinger straightened up. "One of my newest… acquisitions was a maid in the service of Winterfell before she came into my employ. She swears on all the Gods that she saw the Queen and the Kingslayer leave the tower that Bran fell from, just after you had carried the boy away."

Harry frowned suspiciously. "What's her name?"

Littlefinger smiled in delight. The boy was entertaining. "Her name's Ros. I can bring her out if you want, though she may be a little indisposed at the moment."

Harry shook his head. He knew who Ros was; he had met her once or twice in the past. More importantly, he remembered pushing past her in his hurry to get Bran to Maester Luwin.

"Is she sure it was them?" He asked.

"Positive."

"Why didn't she tell Lord Stark about it, then? Why did she wait and tell you first?"

Littlefinger's head dipped slightly. "Lord Stark had often expressed his less than fond views on whoring and those professionals who practice it. She worried that she would not be believed, and that the lions would have her head for making such accusations."

Harry hummed in thought for a second. "Do you want my counsel?" He asked the Starks.

"Of course."

"Then I would advise you to do nothing."

Lady Catelyn jumped out of her seat, anger written across her face. "They come into our home as guests, betray our hospitality and leave my son, the boy you care for as a brother, to die on the cold ground, and you tell me to do nothing! Have you taken leave of your senses?"

Lord Baelish looked inquisitive. "I would agree with Lady Catelyn, Ser Harry. To do nothing would be to invite others to try again."

Ned was deep in thought, his brow furrowed unhappily. "Explain yourself, lad."

"My Lord, I have heard tell of a certain sea snake that lives along the Eastern shores of the Narrow Sea. It is known to lie in the sand, as if wounded, for a time. Its enemies will circle round it, and yet it will lie still. Its enemies will take little bites out of it, and yet it will lie still. Then, when its enemies think it finished, it will lunge and devour them whole." Harry grinned viciously. "I am not advocating letting the Lannisters bring us to ruin by our own inaction, but I am saying that if we let their treachery come to light, if we pin them with their own lies, then we have won. Give them just enough rope to hang themselves with, so to speak."

Lady Catelyn still looked unhappy with his explanation, a stormy expression plastered on her face, but Ned and Baelish looked intrigued.

Ned nodded in acquiescence. "You have a point, Harry. We shall carry on our investigations and when we have solid proof, we'll go to Robert and put the whole damn lot of them on trial. He won't weep to see them gone." His voice dropped an octave, his tone becoming threatening.

"The lions have become arrogant in the long summer."

His eyes were dark, but his expression was cold.

"It's time to remind them that winter is coming."

* * *

Lady Cat had to remain at Littlefinger's house with Lord Baelish in order to preserve her secrecy, but Harry and Ned made their way back to the Tower of the Hand, both riding borrowed horses so that they could reach Ned's quarters before Arya's lesson.

"There is another matter I would like to discuss with you, Harry, if we can find somewhere to talk in private."

Harry smirked proudly before waving his right hand in the air, forcing his magic into the weirwood wad that he had strapped to his wrist and hidden underneath his sleeve. It was much more awkward to push his magic out of his wrists compared to when he held his wand in his hand, but it was worth it if it hid his wand from view.

"Muffliato." He muttered under his breath, the word rolling off his tongue with a strange familiarity.

The area around the horses thrummed, almost unnoticeably, with power, as Harry twisted the magic of the spell, anchoring the magic on himself, so that it would follow the two of them round, keeping their conversations secret even as they moved. It was one of the more complex charms that Harry was capable of using, but his month long endurance and spell training on the road had strengthened his core considerably, and now he barely felt the drain on his energy that came from using such a spell.

"You can speak freely, my Lord."

Ned smiled at Harry's careful use of magic. "Very impressive Harry. Have you been practicing long?"

Harry bowed his head to hide his proud, almost smug smile. "Since I left the Wall with a wand, my Lord."

Ned's eyebrows shot up. "A wand? Now that is impressive. From the stories that I heard, wandlore was lost in the Doom of Valyria, more than four centuries ago."

"Aye it was, my Lord. It required much effort and luck for me to create my wand."

Ned pondered a question for a moment. "It's the first wand to be made since the Conquest, maybe the first of its kind to have ever been made in Westeros." He paused, waiting for Harry to verify his musings.

"Aye."

"Then don't you think you should name it? Do wands even have names?"

Harry started for a second. "I don't know, but it sounds like a good idea. I'll try and think of a name for the wand."

Ned smiled proudly at Harry. "Name it something fierce and strong."

"Maybe I should name it after a Stark woman, then." Harry japed, chuckling when Ned's chest rumbled with hoarse laughter.

"That may be too fierce for you to handle, Harry."

Harry hummed. "Aye, I think you're right."

The two rode in a companionable silence before Harry remembered that Ned had wanted to speak to him.

"You wanted to discuss another matter, my Lord? A private matter?"

Ned thanked Harry for reminding him, before a troubled expression graced his face. "Recently, Robert has become obsessed with the two remaining Targaryen children; Viserys and his sister Daenerys. The daughter has just married some Dothraki horse lord, thousands of leagues away and now Robert fears for his throne from the child of the horse and the dragon."

Harry's heart stopped for a split second as he recalled the oath he had made to the aged Maester Aemon Targaryen on the Wall. He had promised to do everything in his power to protect the remaining members of House Targaryen, a promise that he had hoped that he wouldn't have to deal with for many years to come.

"I fear that Robert may have them killed, as Tywin Lannister had Rhaenys and Aegon killed during the rebellion." Ned sighed heavily. "The man that was willing to argue that a young girl, only a few years older than Sansa, can be a threat that needs to be removed is not the man that I followed into battle all those years ago."

Cold fear ran through Harry as he thought about his oath. As Maester Aemon had predicted, Harry could keep his honour and help the Targaryens, forsaking his family, or he could ignore his oath, let the girl die, keeping his loyalty to his family but ignoring his honour, and his duty to the old Maester of Castle Black. Harry had always strived to be an honourable man, but when it came down to upholding his honour or protecting his family, there was never any question; Harry would go with his family every time.

"What would you have me do, my Lord?" Harry questioned, silently begging that his choice would be taken out of his hands, that it would be made for him by Lord Stark.

"Nothing, as of yet, but I want you to be ready to move at a moment's notice."

Harry was confused. "Move? Move where?"

"If Robert orders the assassination of the Targaryen children, I want you ready to travel to Essos in secret and inform them that King Robert has put a price on their heads."

"My Lord!" Harry exclaimed. "King Robert won't take kindly to that. He'll see it as treason of the worst kind."

"That's why you'll travel in secret until you cross the Narrow Sea. Robert will never have to know."

"Is it worth the risk, my Lord? If another House finds out that you were willing to go against the wishes of King Robert, just for some Targaryen children, there'll be hell to pay. Your House will be ruined."

"It is most certainly worth the risk." Ned wore a bleak expression on his face, his stormy eyes looking through Harry. "I was there, Harry, at the Sack of King's Landing. I was the one to break down the door to the throne room to find the Mad King's corpse lying on the floor, as Jaime _fucking_ Lannister sat on the Iron Throne picking his nails. I saw them bring in the corpses of Rhaenys and Aegon. They had covered them in sheets of Lannister crimson to hide the blood stains, but when I brought my fingers to touch the cloth, they came away red. The Mountain had dashed little Aegon's head against the wall, while tiny little Rhaenys had been stabbed half-a-hundred times as Clegane's men raped and murdered her family."

Ned took a shuddering breath to steady his shaking hands.

"I will not be a part of _murder_ again, Harry. Even if I pay for it with my life, I'll do all that I can to make sure that Daenerys and Viserys aren't butchered like their brother's children were. The Robert I knew and loved wouldn't kill children out of fear! He knows that the Dothraki will never, not in a thousand lifetimes, cross the Narrow Sea, and if they did, we would smash them against the stone walls of our castles. His hatred of the Targaryens has gone on for long enough. It is time to make amends."

Harry was shaken by the raw emotion that he heard in Ned's voice. Bouts of passion were few and far between from Eddard Stark, making them all the more powerful in their rarity. The only time he had heard one in recent memory was when Bran had woken up after his fall.

"Will you do as I command, Ser Harry?" His voice was solemn, almost cold.

"My Lord, I am your sworn shield, under oath to protect and honour your will. But more than that, you've been like a second father to me, you've opened up your home and your family to me. If it is your wish, I would gladly go to Essos and protect the last of the dragons."

Relief washed over Ned soothingly. "Thank you, Harry. I'll make sure that you are greatly rewarded for your service."

Harry bowed as best he could from the saddle. "Duty is its own reward, Lord Stark. Just do me a favour… make sure to think of something convincing to tell Sansa and Arya when I leave. Maybe tell Sansa that I've gone to Skagos to bring her a unicorn for her wedding present."

Ned chuckled lightly.

"She'll believe that. You always were her favourite."

* * *

AN: Some might say that having Ned send Harry to warn the Targaryens is out of character, and would never happen, however this is the man who went to Cersei and told her outright that he was going to have her arrested, all so that she could get her children out of the city. Ned also resigned because Robert decided to assassinate Daenerys and Viserys (who he saw as children, innocent of their fathers crimes)so I think that it's not too far a stretch to imagine that he would send someone like Harry to Essos if he could.

I think Ned's order and Aemon's oath are sufficient enough motivation for Harry to cross the Narrow Sea to meet Dany. Although they will be meeting sometime in the next few chapters, I won't hurry the pairing. I have my own ideas for a slightly slower, more realistic (for that period in time) pairing.

This is the first chapter where Harry starts to use his magic properly. There would be little point to making this story a crossover if I didn't implement some aspects of Harry Potter, which means that he will get better with a wand as the story progresses (though he will definitely not be overpowered).

In a few reviews, people have asked about Bran. If it wasn't made clear in the chapter, Bran still doesn't remember who pushed him. Even though his coma wasn't very long, he still underwent grave trauma to the head.

The title of this chapter comes from the words of House Buckwell of the Antlers, which is one of the minor houses from the Crownlands.

R&R.

Thanks,

Penhaligon


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